


The Teyrn's Daughter and the King's Son

by EveHawke



Series: Lyra Cousland: A Dragon Age Saga [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveHawke/pseuds/EveHawke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duty was all that remained after Lyra Cousland's family was murdered by the treacherous Arl Howe. But that duty would lead her to the man she was meant for, and a love that would be sung throughout the ages. </p>
<p>An Origins love story, concentrating on party and character development. Blood, language, intimacy. Some AU. </p>
<p>Complete, but in rewrites, and being posted chapter by chapter as it is improved here on AO3. Completed work (rough) on fanfiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

 

**PROLOGUE**

_Duty..._

_A Cousland always does her duty._

The early spring wind blew through the darkening sky, whipping the skeletal branches of the few trees that dotted the landscape. Somewhere in the Ferelden Bannorn, south of Highever but north of Ostagar, Lyra Cousland huddled before a crackling fire, unseeing eyes staring into the flames.

Bone weary and aching with grief, she shivered as the night's chill seeped through her worn leather armor. The headache she'd borne for days raged on as her mind continually drifted back to Highever; to the life that had been ripped from her, to the people she'd loved. Visions of their violent deaths prowled through her mind, promising nightmares that would jolt her awake, shaking with fear.

The memory of little Oren skulked through her thoughts, and she clamped her eyes shut, a whimper choking past her tight guard. Grisly pictures danced through her mind; her father, run through and left to die in the larder, her mother nocking an arrow, fierce determination coloring every movement, the sharp _thud_  of the trap door closing her away from her doomed parents.

Guilt washed over her in shivering waves. She'd run. Left her mother to her blood-soaked fate, left her father to sink into oblivion. She could have stayed, could have fought...

_and died with them?_ a traitorous voice whispered.

_It was my place,_  she shot back.

"You may find your brother at Ostagar." Apparently, Duncan had been speaking the whole time. His voice was dry and gentle, but how it grated.

Gritting her teeth, Lyra focused her concentration inward, praying for the control not to jam her hands over her ears and start screaming.

"Your parents may be gone, but we will make a full report to King Cailan, and justice  _will_ be served. In the meantime, your duty as a Grey Warden awaits."

His eyes were kind but stern, and she dropped her gaze to the ground, swallowing the anger that churned the pit of her stomach. Simple enough to say kindly, comforting things. Easy to promise vengeance, to advise patience, to spout meaningless platitudes.

He knew  _nothing_  of her pain _._

Duncan offered her a plate, but she shook her head, stomach roiling in protest. Food would only make her ill.

"You should eat. We have far to go-"

"I cannot, Duncan. Please..." Her voice was rough, a dark shadow of itself. Little wonder; she'd barely spoken in days.

Something must have told him exactly how little she wanted food, for a moment later the bread and jerky were rolled into a leather sack.

Kestrel whined beneath her hand. His bulk was warm and inviting, and she let the tears fall as her arms stole around him. The dog was all she had left of her old life; everything else was burning, miles away in the north. Shared anguish drew them close, heartache the common thread that bound them tighter than ever. A rough tongue lapped at her cheek, and she screwed her eyes shut as she dug fingers deep into his russet fur.

A week ago, life had been normal, beautiful. She'd been the younger daughter of a teyrn, an aunt, a friend. Tonight she was an orphan. The world had gone gray, every drop of color leached away by tragedy.  _Oddly appropriate_ , her rebellious mind snarked.  _What better color for a future Grey Warden?_

This was an eventuality she never could have envisioned; traveling with Ferelden's senior Grey Warden, on her way to Ostagar to be initiated into the infamous order of protectors. Her parents would never have allowed it, but they had been taken from her, murdered by Arl Rendon Howe. She was the last surviving Cousland. Or, nearly the last.

She swallowed her tears, thoughts of her older brother lifting her heart. Fergus had gone with the army, and thus escaped Howe's dastardly plan. There was a chance he was still breathing.

_A chance, but not a great one,_  she thought.

Howe  _must_  have sent assassins after Fergus.  _There could have been one slipped in with the soldiers, for Maker's sake_. What good would it do the traitorous arl to leave the eldest male heir alive?  _Not much_ , she thought, anger steeling her spine. Fergus was almost certainly dead, and it was unrealistic to chase hope. If he  _was_  at Ostagar, as Duncan said... but her sharp mind denied the possibility, leaping ahead to embrace the bleakest possible outcome.

Kestrel whined and cuddled into her, and a new freshet of tears coursed down her cheeks. A mourning howl keened from his throat, and it was only the choking feeling in her airway that prevented her from wailing her grief along with him.


	2. Home at Highever

 

**Chapter 1  
Home at Highever**

Hard leather boots rang against the marbled stone as Lyra Cousland marched through Castle Highever. Destination: Father's study. Servants scurried out of her way as she stalked the hallways, dark blue eyes telegraphing her disagreeable mood. The beautiful, unexpectedly warm day did little to cheer her now, although she'd been savoring the weather before she'd heard the news. Anyone could see that it was battle she was heading into, with her dark hair tied into a low knot at the nape of her neck, leather and chain jingling and creaking, and twin daggers slid into the sheaths set against her shoulders. It was true that she'd  _actually_ been preparing to go out and spar with Fergus, but that wasn't the point. A good warrior improvised.

Determination drove her feet forward, annoyance scripting out the words she would use. Her father, Bryce Cousland, was days away from leaving Highever for the battle at Ostagar, along with her older brother Fergus and most of the army. News had just reached her that she, on the other hand, would be remaining at the castle. Why? Because she was  _female_.

_Not true_ , her all-too-reasonable conscience echoed.  _It's because you're the one Father trusts to look after Highever_.

_Shut up,_  she thought. _This works much better if I'm being oppressed._

Round the corner, and the door to Father's study stood before her. Not bothering to knock, Lyra pushed it open and stood before him, arms crossed, chin lifted in defiance.

Bryce Cousland raised his head from the vellum scrolls he was reading, surprised to see Lyra in his study at this time of day. The look on her face spoke volumes, and he stood, unconcerned, his lanky frame taking the opportunity to stretch a bit. Lyra's ruthless glare made his lips twitch, and he swallowed the chuckle that was threatening to bubble up, knowing just how little his daughter would appreciate it.

He'd gone almost entirely gray in recent years, and was sporting a trim goatee; a new development since his recent trip to Denerim. Light blue eyes flicked over his daughter's face. It was clear as day that she'd heard of his decision to leave her in Highever. He crossed his arms, dropping a cool mask of command over his features. Lyra  _would_  see reason.

"Yes?" he began, and Lyra narrowed her eyes, calm strategy replacing the hot temper he knew so well.  _I'll convince him,_  she thought.

"You mean to leave me, the best warrior you have, in Highever?" An excellent opening argument, in her opinion.

"To guard my most precious treasures. Yes," he replied.

Ouch. A telling blow. Thrumming fingers on her arm, she shifted tactics, moving into secondary reasoning.

"The battle will not  _be_  here. Your 'precious treasures' can certainly be tended by lesser men-"

"All of whom are coming with me. You'll oversee a token force of well-trained guards. I'll not leave your mother and Highever castle without adequate protection."

Logic flew out the window, and she resorted to shouting. "Father, I'm not a child! I want to fight! I'm better than Ser Gilmore, better than Fergus - you know this! Why else have I been training, if not for battle? I am  _not_  a weak female who needs to be protected-"

The tantrum only served to dissolve Bryce's final vestige of control, and her father began to laugh at his daughter's fury. Lyra's mouth snapped shut, a stubborn glare darkening her face.

"My dear girl…" Bryce said, and came around the desk to place his hands on her upper arms. Her eyes begged him to reconsider, and the striking resemblance between his wife and his daughter brought a smile to his lips.

Lyra was tall for a woman, but then, so was Eleanor.  _Maker, the resemblance... Lyra could be Eleanor twenty years ago,_  Bryce thought. Dark brown hair framed an oval face that featured wide, deep, expressive blue eyes.  _Whoever said that the eyes were the gateway to the soul must have met my girl,_  Bryce thought. Those eyes often flashed with impatience or quick intelligence, but could just as easily show humor, love, and quiet happiness. Fine, dark eyebrows curved over her tanned forehead, and a nose – a rather wide nose – sat above full, rosy lips. Eleanor had agonized over her daughter's nose, knowing just how much her own had irked her, but Bryce saw nothing wrong with it. It lent personality to both of their faces, and he loved it as part of what made them individual.

Both women were slender and athletically built, but while Lyra was skilled in knife work and, to a lesser extent, sword play, Eleanor had been considered one of the best archers of her generation. It made for slight differences in their musculature...Lyra was more toned, while Eleanor was wiry. But either way, both women were beautiful, and Bryce considered himself a very lucky man.

"Pup, it isn't that. I know your skill - you outdo your brother and all of my knights! It isn't your sex that determines my decision... your mother asked that you stay. She doesn't like the thought of both of our children going off to war, and to be plain, neither do I. There aren't so many Couslands that I would knowingly endanger both of you. One of you  _must_  stay here, and between you and me, it's your sensible head that I trust to keep care of Highever while I am gone. Maker knows I have been training your brother in statecraft since he was old enough to walk...but there it is. You are my choice. Highever needs competence, and that is _you_ , my darling girl."

Lyra knew her father was right, had known before she stormed into his study, but it didn't lessen her ire. She uncrossed her arms in defeat, twisting her mouth. If she was going to concede, she wanted to get  _something_  out of it.

"Will you tell Mother, at least, that I absolutely refuse to wear that green dress she had made? It makes me look like a houseplant."

Bryce chuckled. "I will do so. But what will you wear to hear the audiences, then? Not your leathers, I hope!"

"And why not? Shouldn't our people see that I am ready to take on anything that comes our way?" Lyra fingered the sturdy leather armor she wore. It conformed to her slender body like a supple glove... patched, stretched and cracked, but so well-worn and broken in that it barely creaked with her weight as she shifted. There was nothing more comfortable and very little could get her out of it.

"Absolutely not." Eleanor Cousland marched into the room, a general taking control of a battle. "You may not like that green dress, but it was made from a pattern brought all the way from Orlais. It is the  _height_  of fashion, and I heard from Lady Miranda that her daughters are absolutely enraptured with the style."

"Makes sense, because they're chits," Lyra muttered under her breath.

"I heard that, young lady. If you won't wear the green dress, then you can wear the blue one – the one that your father brought back from Denerim," Eleanor continued. Lyra sighed, and nodded, knowing better than to cross swords with her mother... it seemed she'd be wearing skirts whether she liked it or not, at least for now.

Fergus poked his head into the room. "Is Lyra in here? There you are, sister! We're waiting for you on the field. Oren is begging for a show, and Ser Gilmore wants to match the winner."

"I'll meet you outside, Fergus!" She turned back to her parents. "May I have your leave to go, Mother?"

"How much practice do you need, child? You were out this morning, already-"

"Mother!" Lyra wailed.

"Fine, go then. We'll continue this conversation at dinner. I have news you may find interesting." Lyra raised a suspicious eyebrow at this, but then quickly kissed her parents and hurried outside.

Bryce moved to the sideboard and poured two small glasses of brandy. His wife took the proffered cup and sat on a carved bench, a small sip warming her tongue before she spoke.

"She'll be 20 next week, Bryce...that's more than old enough to be married. I already had a son when I was her age." Eleanor was fretful, her tone bringing a furrow to Bryce's eyebrows.

"Give her time. I want her to have a love match. We didn't force Fergus into a marriage, and Lyra is more than intelligent enough to choose her own husband." Bryce sat, easing Eleanor's hand into his own, preventing her from chewing her nails. She shot him a rueful glance, her penchant for nervous gestures going unsatisfied. "Eleanor, what's the rush? You grow more worried every day. Are you truly so concerned about our daughter's marriageability?" Bryce sipped from his cup, and Eleanor sighed.

"Lyra is a  _Cousland_. She is a force to be reckoned with – deadly with her daggers, and smart as a whip. She  _should_  marry a prince, but Ferelden only had one, and she was far too young, anyway. But that isn't my point," Eleanor swirled her cup. "With her skill at arms, and her willful attitude, she'll be lucky to find  _any_  husband, much less one who deserves her. She's already chased off four suitors since Satinalia." Eleanor contemplated the cup, then took a much larger sip than she might have had she not been so distressed.

"Technically, she didn't chase them off. They left after realizing she could out-do them with her blades."

"And you don't think this is a problem?" Eleanor rounded on him. "She's setting herself up to be alone, forever! What man wants a woman who can carve him up with a dagger?"

"You're an archer, Eleanor-"

"Did I ever challenge you to a contest?" Eleanor demanded, drawing a sigh from Bryce. "The only men she speaks to with any regularity are your household knights, or the servants," Eleanor continued. "I  _do_  wish she would give Thomas Howe a chance-"

"You know why she won't." Bryce set his drink on the side table while his wife continued her speech, her words tumbling forth with the doggedness of a trained mabari hound.

"Rendon grows more insistent by the day. I can't keep putting him off, Bryce. First it was Nathaniel, then Delilah, and now Thomas. He seems bound and determined to join his family to ours. Maker forbid anything should happen to you – I rather think  _he_  would come knocking at  _my_  door!"

"Should I be concerned? Do you plan on running away with dashing Arl Howe?" Bryce drew his wife's hand into his own and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, eyes sparkling.

Eleanor sniffed, mouth drawing upward into an unattractive squinch. "Now that you mention it, I understand why Lyra has no desire to marry Thomas. He  _is_  just like Rendon, isn't he?"

Bryce chuckled. One hand reached out to tuck a lock of soft gray hair behind his wife's ear.

"You know, Lyra is just like the woman I fell in love with," he said. "Same determination, same temper… only your strength was with a bow, not daggers. You had the most beautiful hair I'd ever seen, and dark blue eyes that I felt like I could drown in."

Eleanor patted her silver hair with a faint smile. "It's rather lost some of its coloring, hasn't it?" She sighed.

"But your eyes are as deep as ever, and your beauty is still without compare." Bryce smiled at his bride of twenty-seven years. "Don't worry about Lyra...she'll find someone." He put his arm around Eleanor and grazed her forehead with his lips. Eleanor leaned into him, at ease in his embrace. After so many years, they fit together like two well-worn puzzle pieces. Laughter from the yard accompanied by the clang of swords filled their ears, somehow becoming a fitting accompaniment to the quiet, affectionate mood that surrounded them.

.oOo.

The next morning, there was just enough time for a quick sponge bath, and then Lyra dressed for breakfast. Nimble fingers flipped through the numerous linen shirts and homespun breeches to pause at the few dresses she owned. Standing before her wardrobe, she fingered the embroidery of the hated green dress, then pulled the blue one over her shoulders instead, wriggling it into place, hoping it would please her mother. After last night's shouting match at the dinner table about her current unmarried state, guilt was carving an uncomfortable pit in her stomach.

_It isn't as if Mother is trying to be annoying_ , she thought, and allowed Eleanor's maidservant to plait her thick brown hair into one long four-strand braid that flowed down her back all the way to her waist. Usually she wore it in two braids bound to the back of her head, but that was for the convenience of fighting, to conform to the shape of a helmet. Eleanor expected differently at table.

Her concessions to traditional female behavior finished, she walked decorously down the hall to the dining room and slipped into her chair beside Oren. Bryce looked pleased, and Fergus gave a low whistle. Eleanor arrived a moment later, and her eyes lit with pleasure at the sight of Lyra looking feminine.

"Lyra. What's the occasion?"

"Just breakfast, Fergus."

Oren's small hand smoothed the fabric of her dress, an admiring look filling his bright, curious eyes. "I like your dress, Auntie Lyra. You should always wear dresses - you look so beautiful." Lyra chuckled at her small nephew and stole his hand up to her mouth to kiss it, then pressed its warm softness to her cheek. He was so small yet, and such a love.

"I agree with Oren, sister - you do yourself an injustice, running through the castle dressed as a boy," Oriana commented. "You look lovely this morning. You really should wear skirts more often."

"Dresses are for special occasions...and sometimes just for fun." Lyra grinned at Oren and poked him in the side. A high-pitched giggle burst from his lips, and he wriggled away from her twitching fingers.

_He'll look just like Fergus one day,_ Lyra thought. Oren was small for his age, but she had a feeling a growth spurt was upon him. Always small, but shooting up like a weed when the mood struck - he'd been like that since he was born, and it seemed as if the time was about right for him to outgrow his clothing again.

Fergus chuckled. "She isn't  _that_  much like a boy. I don't see any other boys with hair like hers."

"Well, with her hair under that helmet it's difficult to tell, and in her armor she's all but unrecognizable. Sister, will you let me style your hair sometime? The new fashion from Denerim is a short 'do, with a braid to the side..."

Lyra's eyes widened in horror. "Cut my hair? You can't be serious!" Hands flew to grip the braid trailing down her back, smoothing their way along its reassuring length.

Oriana ran her hand over her own smooth, short bob. "I don't see why you object so much. It isn't as if you do anything with it but braid it and wind it 'round your head." Always demure and proper to a fault, Oriana straightened her gown, non-existent wrinkles chased away by her refined hands. Oriana was... so feminine. Her hands were small and soft, her frame was small and rounded, her nose was small and dainty. Lyra sniffed, thoughts of her own generous nose making an unwelcome appearance in her mind. Where Lyra was tall, Oriana was petite. Where Lyra was muscular, Oriana was delicate.

_My sister-in-law is what men want,_  Lyra thought.  _Anyone who would be interested in me would see me as nothing more than a chance to rise politically._ She shoved the unpleasant thought from her mind and dunked a spoon into the butter dish, smearing a piece of toast for Oren.

"When father brings me a sward, will you teach me to use it, Auntie?" Oren asked. Lyra quirked an eyebrow, glancing at Fergus to see his reaction.

Fergus burst out laughing, one hand curving around a mug of tea. "That's 'sword', Oren! And don't you want me to teach you?"

Oren's beatific face shone like the very sun. "No, I want Auntie Lyra to teach me. She always knocks you over, Da!"

Lyra's juice cup connected with the table,  _thudding_  loudly as she nearly dropped it in her mirth. A snorting laugh was clawing its way out of her throat, and she rushed the orange juice down before she could spit it over the tablecloth. One hand clamped over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the table as her amusement spilled forth, leaking through her fingers. Oren began giggling as well, enjoying the spectacle his aunt was making as she lost further control.

"Lyra, really," Eleanor said, but the corners of her lips were sliding upward, and Bryce's blue eyes were sparkling.

"Damned kid," Fergus muttered, and sipped from his mug, fooling no one. He was infernally proud of Oren, and if questioned, would have happily admitted that his son was right. Lyra  _was_  better than him. After the thousands of hours she had poured into her practicing, she had a right to be, and if Oren could tell, then it only meant his son was incredibly intelligent for his age.

Bryce cleared his throat. "Oren, enough for now. Let us say the blessing, and then perhaps we will have some exciting news."

"What news?" Oren chirped, but Lyra shushed him and clasped his hand, joining her other hand with her mother. Faces tilted down, eyes closed, and Bryce's steady voice implored the Maker to bless their meal.

"Now?" Oren begged when Bryce had finished, but Lyra began cutting his ham for him, telling him to  _wait_. Papa would tell the news when he was ready, and until then, Oren needed to eat like a good boy.

Eventually, Bryce gave in and admitted that they were expecting a special guest, and Oren allowed Lyra to build him a ham and egg sandwich. As they ate, Eleanor told them about the two letters she had received earlier that week, both from young men from excellent noble families.

"It seems to me that it would be no bad thing for you to meet these young men, Lyra," Eleanor said, her tone wheedling. "They are both about your age, and-"

Lyra set her napkin against her lips, taking the moment to gather her words. "Mother, I'll meet these young men, but-"

The door swung open, and a servant entered. "Teyrn Cousland, an important visitor has arrived… Duncan, of the Grey Wardens."

"Our visitor, Oren! Excuse me, please…" Bryce stood, dropping his napkin into his chair behind him. He hurried out, leaving his family staring in his wake.

After a moment, Lyra shoved her breakfast plate away. "I'm done." Pushing herself away from the table, she hurried from the room, but Eleanor caught her hand as she passed, forcing her to slow and hear her words.

"Lyra, you've barely touched your food. You spent more time on Oren's plate than on your own—"

"I ate a whole egg, Mother. I'm fine. I'll get a snack from the kitchens later if I need something."

The truth was, food had  _never_  been a driving force for Lyra. She ate what was handy, no matter how dainty or tempting, and stopped when she was full, which was usually soon after starting. It just seemed that her body was extremely efficient about how much it needed.

Darting down the long hall to her room, Lyra loosened the stays of her dress as she went, sliding the dress down her arms almost before she was through her door. Into the chair it went, too little time to hang it up properly, and the leather armor all but flew onto her body. Buckles and laces strapped tight, she wrapped the cascading braid around her head and secured it with a few pins. Her blades twirled into place over her shoulders, sliding home with a satisfying  _snick_ and the comforting weight of steel. A peek into the reflecting glass, and she was out the door again, heading for the field.

If a Grey Warden was here in Highever, it could only mean he was recruiting. And  _that_  could only mean he would be in one place. Perhaps, just perhaps… she could see this Grey Warden for herself.

.oOo.

She was disappointed, however. The morning passed in the normal way, with nothing more interesting on the field than Kestrel and a score of her father's knights. She took them through their paces, running the training exercises with them, then sparring round-robin style. Quick glances over her shoulder at the low fence surrounding the field revealed nothing and no one she wasn't already familiar with.

She was sweating freely, her hair feeling damp and matted, when her father summoned her to his parlor. At last! And she was as smelly as a pig. What had made her think of putting herself through such an intense workout? Damning herself for acting a fool, she rushed back to her room and sponged off, wishing for a bit of the rose-water that Oriana kept in her room.

As she cleaned up, she wondered at her reaction. Was she a fighter, or wasn't she? Did a warrior concern themselves with such trivial things as body odor? Shouldn't the Warden appreciate a strong female, who could match twelve men nearly twice her size in the fighting ring?

It all sounded fine, but Lyra waffled, and strode to Oriana's room.  _I may not be girly, but I don't want to smell like a horse._ A dab here and there, and then her feet carried her to the parlor where her father waited. Knocking, she urged the door open and slipped into the room, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim firelight.

"Pup, this is Duncan, Commander of Ferelden's Grey Wardens. Duncan, meet my daughter Lyra Cousland."

Duncan took her hand and squeezed it gently in a warm handshake. She liked that - no kissing of her fingertips, just a friendly greeting between equals.

The Warden Duncan was not as tall as her father, but seemed quite solidly built, and his armor was well-made and fantastic to behold – white and silver, with whorling designs in copper and bronze. She'd never seen the like. She wondered - was this the uniform of the Wardens, or simply his own personal style? A blade hung on his back, the hilt displayed over his right shoulder, nestled comfortably behind a large, squared shield. His face was swarthy, tanned by sun and wind, but also naturally dark – a native of Rivain, perhaps? His hair was a deeper brown than her own and receding slightly, but worn in a curving ponytail at the nape of his neck. Dark eyes sparkled over a strong, hooked nose, and red lips smiled from the recesses of a neatly trimmed beard. He turned his head to speak to her father, and her eyes widened at the sight of the gold earring that hung from one ear.

She'd missed Duncan's words during her inspection of his person, but her mother's training took over and she smiled widely as she spoke. "Welcome, Ser Warden. Are you here for recruits?" Lyra asked, eager for the answer.

Duncan's head dipped, acknowledging her direct query. "Yes, indeed. The Wardens are sorely in need of talented individuals to fill out our ranks. I am here to test Ser Gilmore, but perhaps someone else should be brought to my attention as well. Can you recommend anyone?" His eyes twinkled, and her breath caught. Could he be referring to… herself?

Not that she could go, although had she but the chance…

"There are many knights in Highever who would fit your needs, I am certain. The Couslands are proud to be able to offer competent fighters to the Grey Wardens." There, pretty enough, and diplomatic.  _Were my duty not to Highever, I would certainly present myself as an option_ , she thought.  _But Mother would never allow it…she'll see me married first, Maker help us both._

The doors swung wide, banging loudly against the wall in their haste to admit their aggressor. Bryce looked over in irritation as Arl Rendon Howe burst into the room.

"Teyrn Cousland, I-" Howe cut himself off, realization of his faux pas flooding his features. "Forgive me, Bryce. I had no idea you were occupied. Shall I return later...?" The tone was apologetic, but Howe's eyes were expectant, as though he didn't  _really_ think Bryce would ask him to leave.

Lyra's eyes darkened at the intrusion. Old friend or not, she had never liked Rendon Howe,  _or_  his children.  _Pompous ass_ , she thought.  _He barges in here, and there's no way he wasn't aware of this meeting. He_ wanted _to be here. But what interest could he have in Duncan's visit?_ As always, Howe was immaculate - fine clothing, neat grey haircut, clean-shaven jawline. Appearances meant much to this one, and reputation was tantamount.  _His sons are just like him,_  Lyra thought, her mouth twisting.  _Jockeying for position._ Nathaniel Howe, eight years her senior, had been sent away to the Free Marches when she was thirteen, so in truth she'd never gotten to know him well. But Thomas…Thomas Howe was a plague, as far as she was concerned.

"Rendon, my friend. Enter and be welcome. Allow me to present Duncan of the Grey Wardens. I was just introducing him to my daughter." Bryce's tone was friendly, but the slant of his eyes telegraphed his true feelings at being interrupted.

Howe advanced, a slight frown of displeasure skittering across his face. "I apologize, ser, I had no idea Highever was expecting such an esteemed guest. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

_What drivel,_  Lyra thought.  _But two can play at that game._

"Duncan is here to find recruits for the Wardens, Arl Howe. Have you brought Nathaniel, or Thomas? I'm sure they would be eager to test their swords," Lyra spoke up brightly.  _Let the old goat try that on for size. As if he would ever give up his children to a cause greater than himself…._

Howe smiled, an amused contortion of his lips. He thought her cute, clearly, and it made her fists ball in fury. "No, my dear, my family is back in Amaranthine. Although perhaps I _should_  bring Thomas here, next time I come. He speaks highly of you. Perhaps our families could come to some sort of an arrangement. What say you, Bryce?" Howe's voice was too smooth, and it made her uneasy.

Lyra felt her face go alternately hot and cold. "An arrangement, sir?" she said lightly, feigning ignorance as her mind raced. She knew exactly what he referenced, but nothing could make her say it.

Arl Howe chuckled. "Yes, perhaps an engagement is exactly what our families need. We've been friends for many years, after all - what could be more natural than the joining of a Howe and a Cousland?"

Heart racing like a frightened bird, she took an involuntary step backward. The suggestion that had been danced around, hinted at, and implied for years was finally out on the table, as appetizing as day-old fish. Since the time they were children, Thomas had tormented her, teased her, gotten her in trouble. More tears had been spilled on her mother's shoulder over Thomas Howe than she cared to admit. At first, her mother had tried to reassure her – sometimes, boys acted like that when they wished to gain a girl's attention. Perhaps if she was  _kind_  to him… horrible thought! Kind to the boy who had dipped her braid in a tar-barrel? To the young man who had locked her out of her own room, dripping wet and freezing in the middle of the night, dressed in nothing but her shift? The man who had allowed his hands to wander – and even delve – into unwelcome territory when he had managed to trap her into a waltz last Satinalia? His foul touch was something she was  _still_  trying to scrub from her memory.

Perhaps she  _was_  being cruel. He obviously had some sort of interest in her. But years of torture at his hands had ensured she could never come to care for him, no matter what he might do.

Bryce's flickering glance spoke volumes, and her body turned to jelly with relief at his next words.

"Rendon, as much as you and I might like that idea, I'm sorry to say I cannot speak for my daughter's wishes. If Thomas wishes to come and court her, I cannot imagine that she would refuse him the opportunity to win her hand...but I cannot make arrangements on her behalf." Howe's face changed slightly, seeming to settle itself into resolution, but Lyra was too relieved to notice. "But arrangements of any kind will have to wait until we return from Ostagar. We march tomorrow, isn't that correct?"

"Actually, Teyrn, that is the reason I arrived in such a state. I've just been informed that my armies are delayed. I know how much the king wishes you to be there, so I advise you to send your armies on ahead, and we will be only a day or two behind you."

"I'll send Fergus ahead with the army, then, and I shall wait here with you. I would be glad of another day with my wife and daughter, and I shall be able to see how Duncan's choice plays out." Bryce shifted his gaze to the Grey Warden. "I can recommend several young men, but Ser Gilmore is my top choice. Is there anyone else you wish to see?"

"In truth, Teyrn Cousland, your daughter Lyra has been brought to my attention," Duncan said, his glance making her heart jump. "I've heard of her triumphs in the tournaments, and I find myself curious."

Lyra's mouth went dry, and she swallowed. The Grey Wardens were heroes of legend, and the thought of actually becoming one of them was an impossible dream. Appealing didn't even begin to cover it… much more so than choosing one of the 'nice young men' her mother seemed determined to shove in front of her.

Bryce's forehead creased, concern written on his face. "I don't have so many children that I am eager to give up my only daughter, even to so noble a group as the Grey Wardens. So, unless you plan on invoking the Right of Conscription..." He let his words trail away.

"No no, I would not insist. I have no desire to break up your family. It is a great compliment to your daughter's ability, however, that word of her talents reached me. Perhaps I can see a demonstration of her skills before I head to Ostagar myself."

Disappointment dipped through her. She understood – a Cousland always did her duty, and she had really expected no less from her father. Had she been anyone but a Cousland, though....

Perhaps something in her expression spoke of her regret, for the Warden  _winked_  at her. A giggle slipped from her lips at the covert communication. She liked this Duncan.

Bryce, for his part, was relieved that the Warden wouldn't be putting up a fight with regards to his daughter. Eleanor would have had kittens.

He asked Lyra to find Fergus and let him know that the army would be leaving tonight, instead of tomorrow. Lyra acquiesced, said her goodbyes, and strode from the room. Rendon Howe made his own excuses before taking his leave, and Bryce turned to Duncan.

"She is my greatest treasure, Duncan. Surely you can see why."

"Indeed, I can. You are quite lucky to have a daughter such as she. If only we all could be so lucky. I recall seeing her in Redcliffe, years ago… she has grown into a remarkable young woman."

"Redcliffe… Eamon's wedding?" Bryce asked. "That's twelve years gone. I suppose she  _has_ changed since then," he chuckled. "I don't recall seeing you. When were you there?"

"Only for the tournament. I saw her playing with a group of youngsters."

"Ah." Bryce eased himself into a plush chair, gesturing for Duncan to make himself comfortable. "Have you no children of your own, Duncan?"

"No, unfortunately. I have no wife, and Grey Wardens do not normally have children or families. But I have found much joy among the recruits. They seem to see me as a father figure of sorts, and I enjoy their company."

"I'm glad that I am not a Grey Warden, ser... My wife and my children are the things I love best, and I believe if I had nothing else in the world, I would not mind so long as I had them." Teyrn Cousland smiled. "But here I am, rambling. Let us speak of Ser Gilmore."

.oOo.

Lyra jogged easily through the atrium, looking for Fergus. The armor smith had said he was with the groom, the groom had directed her to the supply master, and the supply master had sent her off to the kitchens.

_Probably stuffing his saddlebags with pastries,_  she thought. If there was one thing her brother couldn't resist, it was Nan's baking. The sound of her name slowed her steps, and she stopped to wait as Rory Gilmore waved to her from across the way.

"My Lady Cousland!"

"Ser Gilmore...Roland, please, we've known each other since we were children. How many times must I ask you to call me Lyra?" Her lips tugged upward. Rory Gilmore was a longtime friend, and if things had worked out differently, he might have been more. Soft red hair fell in a wave across his forehead, and a smattering of freckles was dusted over his ivory skin. The poor man forever suffered from a peeling sunburn across the bridge of his nose, so pale was his complexion. Eyes as green as tidepools swept up to meet hers, and she felt the same slight flutter he'd inspired in her heart since her fourteenth year.

While most nobles built their futures around status and made marriages based on who could boost them higher, Lyra had little interest in raising herself politically. Her family was already at the top of Ferelden's heirarchy, second only to the Theirins, holders of the throne for generations. What need had she for status? No, instead Lyra longed for a love match, something similar to what her parents had cultivated, and she had little care whether it was with a knight, a freeholder, or the king himself.

Not that Cailan Theirin needed a bride, and if he had, she probably would have run in the other direction. Rule a kingdom? She barely had interest in ruling a banquet table, which was likely the only duty her eventual husband would allow her.

As for Rory, well. He was certainly good looking, and conversation came easily to them. Second to herself, he was the best fighter in Highever, and had been training for just as many years. There was attraction, no doubt, and a sense of companionship - so much better than the simpering noble sons she'd met each Satinalia, with hands far less calloused than her own.

When Lyra was fifteen the two of them had been taken with each other, but it had ended badly after one awkward kiss. For nearly a year afterward Rory had avoided her like the plague, and when she finally discovered it was because of a stupid misunderstanding, she'd cornered him and demanded that he  _speak_  to her again. Their friendship was slow in recovering, and it was only recently that they'd begun to recapture the comfortable closeness they'd enjoyed as children. In Lyra's case, however, the old attraction had never gone away.

Rory took her hand in his own, brushing it with his lips before loosing a shy smile. The familiar gesture stopped her heart, and she heard a surprised breath whoosh into her own lungs. "Lyra, then," he said softly, and it seemed those green orbs would swallow her. Her mouth went dry, and it was only then she realized he was still speaking. "Your mother has asked me to find you and escort you to the kitchens... it seems your mabari hound is causing trouble, and you know how mabari are... only their owners can call them off. Cook's quite upset - she's threatening to quit."

A chuckle slipped past Lyra's lips as she thought of Nan and her tantrums. "She threatens that every other day." His hand was still holding hers...

"Let's go, then...I was on my way to the kitchens anyway." Maker, his hand was _still_ holding hers. She hesitated, not wishing to be the one who broke their contact. "Uh, have you seen Fergus, by chance?"

Verdant eyes warming with what she could swear was longing, he gave her hand a quick squeeze before finally letting it drop away, color rushing to his cheeks the moment the spell broke. "He was on his way to his room, to spend some time with his wife and son. I passed him not far back." After a moment's hesitation, he offered her his elbow, and they began to stroll down the stone walkway toward the kitchen.

Lyra was suddenly glad for the brief stop in Oriana's room, and the pinch of rose-water.

Their normally easy conversation was slow in starting as they both adjusted to the reality of what was happening, but then Rory found a question he'd been wanting to ask.

"My lady – um, Lyra, tell me, is it true? I heard there is a Grey Warden here visiting. Jolyn told me he's recruiting!"

Lyra nodded, swallowing to try and work a bit of moisture over her dry-as-dust tongue. "He's here. I met him not long ago - his name is Duncan, and Roland, he's here to see you! Isn't it exciting?"

A bright smile lit Rory's face, excitement suffusing every pore. "Truly, Lyra? Oh, I would give anything to be a Grey Warden! I wonder if he will take me...I'm not of noble birth."

"Don't be silly, you don't have to be noble. The Grey Wardens take anyone who is capable. I'm sure they have tests, though..." Her brow furrowed. "What do you suppose they are?"

"Fighting, of course. Tracking, maybe. And I'm sure you can't be an idiot."

"That leaves Fergus out, then," Lyra giggled.

Rory chuckled as well, but his eyes darted sideways, some slight admonishment quirking one coppery eyebrow. "Lady, your brother is a fine man."

"Rory, this is  _me_  you're talking to," she reminded him, and he offered her a familiar grin, sending butterflies dancing through her.

Whatever he meant to say next went unheard, for as they approached the kitchen, the sound of crockery smashing against stone stilled his words. Nan's shrill voice could be heard shouting from within, and Lyra eased her hand from Rory's elbow with regret before pushing the wooden door open.

"Good for nothin' dog! If he's gotten into the roast I'll murder him with my own two bare hands, be damned wha' his mistress'd say. I-" Grey-haired Nan stood in the center of the room, a feral expression on her lined face. The elven servants shrank against the wall, wide eyes cast downward as they listened to her tirade. Lyra glanced around - shards of pottery on the floor, but no spilled food or other causes of destruction, and no sign of her mabari.

"Come now, Nan, surely it can't be all that bad?" Lyra sauntered into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other and folding her arms over her chest. Rory moved in quietly behind her, the awareness of his presence warming her like her own personal sun.

Galla and Varen were cowering, and Lyra felt for the long-suffering kitchen workers. Nan was a hard task-mistress with a foul temper, but it was all bluster. The woman had one of the kindliest hearts Lyra had ever come across, though likely Nan would sooner die than admit to it.

Nan glared up at Lyra, spotted-hands fisting on her thin hips. "Don' take that tone with me, young mistress! You're not so grown yet that I couldn't tan your britches if I had to. Tha' mutt has crossed the line! He's on'y lucky Galla dropped the only bowl worth throwing, or I'd've smashed it over his fool head. Always gettin' in my way, eatin' what he ain't allowed, making more work than I've time for..."

Lyra sensed the storm wasn't going to end anytime soon, which meant there was nothing to do but forge ahead into it. "He isn't a mutt, he's a pure-bred mabari, a war hound of the highest caliber, and he's just as smart as you and I. But let me get him before he vexes you further, Nan." She leaned down to kiss the old woman's papery cheek, then pushed open the door to the larder.

She was greeted by the back end of her dog, wagging back and forth in glee while his nose was lowered into a pile of flour sacks. Whining, he scratched eagerly at the fabric, then backed up suddenly and whuffle-snuffed a doggy sneeze.

"The damage doesn't look bad. In fact, I don't think he touched anything...how did he get in here, anyway?" Roland asked, looking around. Kestrel spotted his mistress and barked a delighted greeting, spinning around to bury his head in her outstretched hands. She knelt and ruffled his ears, then pressed her forehead to his, peering into deep brown eyes.

"What are you  _doing_  in here, Kestrel?" she asked, and he turned back to the piled sacks, another whine singing from his throat.

"Okay, the sacks... Shall I look?" Kestrel barked, launching himself in a full circle of excitement, then butted against her legs, pushing her toward the rumpled stack of cloth.

"Okay, I get it! Let me be, mutt," she chuckled affectionately, then knelt before the pile and began pulling the sacks aside.

Kestrel began growling, and her eyebrows furrowed, wondering what in Thedas he could be-

A giant rodent shot out from the last of the bags, and she leapt to her feet, a shriek of dismay ripping forth before she could quite stop it. Heart in her throat, she watched as the largest rats she'd ever seen poured from a hole gnawed through the plaster of the wall. Rory fell in among them, and she joined him a moment later, chastising herself for her squeamish reaction. They died, like anything else, though as she speared one with a dagger and it continued to wriggle on her blade, she nearly flung the awful thing across the room.

It was the squirminess of them. Yes, that was it.

A few moments later, the larder was littered with furry corpses. Kestrel savaged the last one, a pathetic squeak chirping from its lips as he shook it back and forth.

"Giant rats? It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell," Roland said. He found a rag in his pouch and polished his blade with it, cleaning it of fur and blood, then handed the cloth to Lyra, who gave her dagger the same treatment before slipping it back into place on her back.

Kestrel had begun piling the rats up, and Rory helped Lyra shovel their bodies into an empty sack. Her heartbeat returning to normal, Lyra grinned at her dog. "You weren't stealing from the larder. You were saving the roast! Kestrel, you're my hero." Lyra tossed him a bit of sausage from a shelf, and Kestrel snatched it out of the air, a wolfish grin stretching his lips as he chewed.

Roland propped the door open with one booted foot. "It's alright, Nan, your dinner is safe. Kestrel was keeping some rats out of your foodstuffs."

Nan pushed past him, going straight to the carved roast that sat on a sideboard to inspect it for damages. She barely seemed to notice the reddened stains on the planking, and Lyra picked up the sack and hid it behind her back.

"Rats? Oh, how horrid!" Galla cried.

"Quiet, girl. Now see what you've done - you've scared the servants. Get along, then, while we finish preparations for dinner. Don't just stand there, Galla, pick up that broken bowl. Varen, help her, and then start peeling those potatoes."

Kestrel whined at Nan, and the cook let out a noisy sigh. One veined hand swept a pile of trimmings from a counter, then dropped them before the dog. She gathered her apron in her hands, cleaning them of grime.

"Take these pork bits, then, and don't say Nan never gave you nothing. Bloody dog," she muttered. Kestrel consumed the delicacies in one bite, then looked over at Lyra with a triumphant gleam in his eye. He trotted out of the kitchen, Lyra and Ser Gilmore right behind.

Outside, Roland cleared his throat. "Well, my lady, I will leave you to whatever plan seems good. Oh, shall I take that for you?" He reached over to slip the bag of rats from her fingers. A shy smile brightened his face, and then he looked down, clearing his throat.

An indrawn breath for courage, and Lyra leaned in to brush her lips against Rory's cheek. His skin was soft... A look of surprise crossed his face, and he crimsoned, muttering something about disposing of the rats and needing to be somewhere else. She watched him go, rather surprised at her daring, and then whistled to Kestrel and went off to Fergus' room to deliver her father's message.


	3. Lessons in Loss

**Chapter 2  
Lessons in Loss**

A fine sheen of sweat covered her upper lip, her helmet banging her head as she jogged behind Duncan's lithe form. The helm was loosening with every mile as the strap wore thin – she would have to see about replacing it. Deft fingers reached up to fasten it more tightly, her stride consistent as she trained her eyes on the blue and silver griffin that adorned Duncan's shield. The man could run, that was for sure. As much as she liked to think she kept in fighting trim, she wasn't used to this – running for four to five hours a day in full armor and weaponry, and carrying a pack of supplies gathered from a small hamlet on the road. They walked, then ran, walked, then ran – Duncan said they would cover ground much faster this way. It was standard army practice, to be sure, but she had never been in the army.

She was a teyrn's daughter no longer; her family had been massacred by Arl Howe's men. Vision blurred as she tried to keep her eyes focused firmly on the landscape, but tears slid down her cheeks unbidden. It would do no good to wipe them away; more would only follow, tracking the same paths down her face. Heart aching, eyes burning, throat choking, the small drops of grief fell from her eyes to sink into the earth below. She ran on, memories looping through her mind, endlessly repeating the night she'd lost her reasons for living...

.oOo.

A sharp growl jolted her awake, her eyes flying open to absorb the heavy curtains that swathed the upper reaches of her four-poster bed. Kestrel pawed the heavy oaken door, his warning ripping from his throat in harsh snarls. Lyra sat up in a daze, her nostrils thick with the smell of smoke from the open window.

 _Fire?_  she thought, her sleep-clouded mind struggling to sort out the varying stimuli that rushed at her. Voices outside the door sounded strident, frightened…. Something was wrong. She clambered out of bed and hurried to the chest by the wall to get her clothing, her weapons. She'd barely begun pawing through the trunk when the door flew open.

"My lady! The castle is under attack!" It was one of the elven servants, and his rallying cry was cut off as an arrow exploded through the fabric of his shirt. It blossomed red, and his eyes rolled back as he collapsed into her room.

Lyra froze, naked but for her smallclothes, a shocked gasp sputtering from her lips. Kestrel had no such hesitations – he leaped through the door with a feral, challenging bark, and then his pained yelp echoed as a rough male voice shouted "Get this beast off me!" A scuffle, and then she heard slow, cautious footsteps.

Her trembling fingers grazed her dagger beneath the clothing she had been rustling through, and she wrapped steadying fingers around the pommel with a shaky breath.

The man who entered her room was smelly, unshaven, and grinning like an idiot when he saw her crouched on the floor. Lyra's heart hammered in fear… nothing good could possibly come of this.

"Hey boys, look what I found!" He advanced, his grin growing more menacing with every step. Lyra straightened, well aware of how vulnerable she seemed, the dagger concealed behind her back. With her free hand, she pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, her mouth gone dry as bone. Two more men entered the room, and her eyes darted between them as her strategy changed to handle multiple attackers.

The soldiers laughed, and the one nearest her began unfastening his armor; the vital moment of distraction. She leaped forward and planted the dagger in the side of his neck, yanking it free and spinning closer to the second one. A quick slash across his neck, and his life was ended in a gurgling froth of blood. Adjusting her balance, she lifted her foot in a savage kick at the third, right where it would hurt him most. He groaned, his eyes squinching shut with pain, and when he bent over she dropped the dagger, grabbed his head and slammed it down into her upraised knee, breaking his nose and pushing the cartilage and bone straight up into his brain. The soldier dropped, and Lyra took a moment to breathe.

It was over - less than ten seconds after it had begun. Panic crept over her, and if she had allowed it she would have crumpled down on the floor and cried in hysterics. She had never actually killed a man, and now three were dead at her hands. Never mind that they had meant to kill her, and to violate her before they did it. She hadn't known she was capable of defending herself in such a brutal manner. Lyra forced down her feelings of horror and made herself think.

 _The soldiers_. She didn't recognize them, which meant they weren't from Highever's elite, so this wasn't an insurrection from within. From the speech patterns of the one who had spoken, it seemed likely they might have come from Amaranthine. Suddenly she remembered her mabari.

 _Kestrel!_  Where was he? Forgetting that she was still mostly naked, she skidded into the hallway. Her longtime companion was huddled on the floor, a bloody lump forming on the top of his head. She fell to her knees beside his still form, begging him to get up. Quivering hands stroked his fur. It was still warm, and she was gratified to find a heartbeat under her fingers. After a moment, Kestrel stirred, and she hugged him close, relieved tears brimming. He swiped a rough tongue over her face, then cocked an eye at her naked form, giving a soft whine.

Lyra looked down and sniffled a little, then laughed. "I suppose I should dress, then?"

Kestrel whuffed softly, then got to his feet and nudged her toward her door. She complied, stepping gingerly over the bodies of the soldiers, and hurried over to her trunk. Pulling on soft, comfortable linens, she strapped her armor on as quickly as she could, her fingers shaking a little. She tried to still them but they betrayed her anxiety, and she forced herself to take a calming breath and finish the buckles. The door at the end of the hall opened as she slid the last one home, and her heart jackhammered again in fear as she fumbled her weapons out of their sheaths.

"Lyra? Sweetheart?" Maker, her mother's voice. Her knees turned to jelly and she stumbled into the hallway.

Eleanor was dressed in her old leather archer's jerkin, an arrow nocked and ready to release. When she saw her daughter, she let go the arrow and rushed forward to embrace her. Lyra felt her control slip, and she began sobbing in her mother's arms.

"Now, now my girl, everything will be fine. Are you hurt?" Eleanor pulled away and looked Lyra up and down, checking for anything amiss. Lyra shook her head and hiccupped.

"I...  _killed_  them, Mother..." Her voice cracked with strain, and a fresh wave of tears cut off any further words. Eleanor pulled her close again, murmuring soothing sounds. She strained to listen over her daughter's faint whimpers; all seemed quiet. After another moment she forced Lyra away again, hands clenched firm against her daughter's shoulders as she searched her tear-streaked face.

"I heard the commotion outside and dressed as quickly as I could. Have you seen your father? He never came to bed." Lyra shook her head and took a deep, calming breath. She scrubbed at her eyes and their betraying wetness, furious with herself for being so weak.

Suddenly Eleanor's eyes widened. "You don't suppose...Oriana!" Eleanor dashed toward the door opposite Lyra's and flung it open. Lyra was right behind her mother, and the sight that met their eyes would stay with Lyra for the rest of her life.

Oriana lay at an unnatural angle, her fair Antivan skin a strange shade of mottled purple and blue, as though she had died choking on her own air. Beside her was Oren, a gaping hole in his stomach, blood pooled in a viscous puddle around him that soaked his garments and turned everything a macabre shade of red. His face was contorted, a scream forever stilled on his innocent face. The five-year old boy's hand gripped his mother's skirt, her hands reaching out to him.

Lyra shut her eyes to the grisly sight, her breath quickening as she fought off more tears, but her mother's strangled sob cut through her own pain. Now she became the one to offer comfort as Eleanor looked on her only grandchild, dead at mercenary hands. Something hardened inside of Lyra, her stomach leaden. This was no random attack.

Eleanor sank to her knees, looking helplessly on the bodies of her daughter-in-law and grandson. Lyra knelt beside her to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but Eleanor shoved it away. Her voice began as a broken whisper and built to a wail of anguish. "Who would do this? Who would kill these two, completely innocent and without defense? Why, Maker,  _why_?"

Lyra glanced back toward her room and the three dead soldiers. A nasty suspicion had been niggling at the back of her brain, and now it jumped out, full center. She left her mother and walked purposefully to the bodies to flip the shield one of them had slung on his lifeless arm.

The brown bear on a gold and white background, symbol of the Howes, stared back. Eleanor stepped up behind her.

"Arl Howe? But..."

With a nearly audible click, the puzzle pieces fell into place in Lyra's mind. "He attacks us while the army is gone. He means to take Highever!"

"Then... your father...!" As one, Eleanor and Lyra sprinted down the hall, grief for Oriana and Oren shoved temporarily aside in the hope of saving  _someone_.

.oOo.

Lyra slashed her daggers in a wide arc, blood spraying as she slit the throat of an attacker. A quick spin to the side and she caught another man in the nose with the crook of her elbow. She dashed toward the anteroom after her mother, gasping as hairy arms grabbed her from behind in her mad scramble to get away. Grunting, she slammed her helmet back into what she hoped was her attacker's nose, and the arms released. She stumbled as she was dropped, regaining her balance and getting a fresh grip on her weapons. He yelled savagely, calling her a mabari bitch, and she whirled and drove her twin daggers home. His limp body was shoved away into the hall as her mother let fly a final arrow, and she ducked through the door as Eleanor kicked it shut in front of them. Lyra hefted a chair and shoved it under the latch, securing the entrance for now. The women panted with exertion, operating on pure adrenaline and survivalist instinct.

"Lyra, we must get to the kitchens. The larder – the secret exit the Couslands built for just such an emergency. If your father is not here, he must have gone there to wait for us. Highever is lost - we must get out!"

Lyra nodded, gulping air, then followed her mother across the room. Eleanor threw open the door, and they began to sprint again.

"My lady! Lady Lyra!" Her heart twisted. Rory! He careened around a corner and she threw her arms around him, thrilled beyond words that he was alive. His arms tightened around her back, and Lyra felt somewhat guilty at the thrill she got that he was holding her so close.

"Lyra, you live! I was so afraid you were dead. Quickly, you and Lady Cousland must get to the kitchens...Teyrn Cousland is-"

Eleanor cut him off. "You saw Bryce?"

Ser Gilmore released his hold on Lyra, a flush darkening his cheeks. "Yes, my lady. He sent me to find you – said he would go through the tunnel and meet you on the other end. I will cover your retreat – you must escape now!"

Lyra grabbed for Rory's hand. "Come with us!"

"Lyra, I must see to it that you escape safely..." The stubborn set of her mouth spoke volumes, and a sad smile widened his mouth momentarily. "I will follow as soon as I can. I promise." With that comforting lie and a tender squeeze of his hand, she would have to be content, and a lump grew in her throat. All of them knew that the knight would most likely die defending the castle that had become his home, and that Lyra would add him to the list of people she had lost that night. She felt tears begin burning as she looked into his face, those verdant eyes so vivid and hopeless, and he trailed a calloused hand over her cheek. Eleanor had already begun the sprint away, and they followed, hand in hand.

A small group of enemy soldiers spotted them as they raced around a corner, and Rory pulled his sword from his side. "For Highever!" he cried, and Eleanor's hand replaced the knight's, yanking Lyra away. She went, watching his retreating back, her heart breaking anew at the sight of her friend rushing to meet his fate.

It seemed only seconds later that they arrived at the larder door, and Eleanor flung it open, a harsh breath stuttering from her throat at the vision before her. For the second time that night, Lyra's eyes were graced with naked, painful death as she saw her father bleeding out before her very eyes.

"Father!" she cried in horror, and fell to her knees beside him. Eleanor took her husband's hand and pressed her lips to his knuckles, a small sob escaping her throat.

His lips attempted an upward turn, a ghostly, gray smile made mocking by the blood that bubbled at the corners of his mouth. "Pup. Elle. You're alive...it is more than I hoped for."

Lyra felt as though she would suffocate. "Father, you must get up. We will take you out of here – Mother and I can carry you..."

He shook his head, even that small movement seeming to drain him. His voice was weak, wracked with agony. "Pup, I'm nearly gone. You and your mother must escape. Warn Fergus...of Howe's treachery."

"I'm afraid your father is right." Lyra's eyes flew upward to discover the Grey Warden, Duncan, towering over them. He knelt gravely, a look of deep sadness creasing his forehead. "He doesn't have much time."

"No, Bryce...stay with me. We can find you healing magic..." Eleanor's voice wavered, and Duncan's serious tone broke in.

"Teyrn Cousland, I can take your family to safety, but I must ask a boon in return. I came to Castle Highever seeking a recruit, and the Blight demands that I must not leave without one. In truth, it is your daughter I had hoped to recruit all along. Will you give her to me, to the Grey Wardens, to stop the Blight?"

Lyra whipped her head around to look at Duncan in disbelief. How could he think of such a thing, at a time like this? Had the man no heart at all? Highever was burning, her family dying, and he wanted to make her a Warden? Her father's pain-filled voice brought her back to the moment, and she swiveled to focus on him again.

"Keep them safe, Duncan. I can't make the choice for her...but Pup, go with him. Live. Keep your mother safe. Do your duty...to Ferelden, and to Highever." Her father's voice seemed likely to expire at any moment. She picked up his hand and pressed it to her cheek, her quick nod signaling her agreement to honor his last wish.

"I'm not going." Eleanor's voice was deathly calm.

"What?" Lyra turned to her mother, horrified.

"I will stay and cover your retreat. The bastards will have to get through me before they can hurt you."

"Mother, no! Please, please come with us!" She couldn't lose both parents, not in one night-

"Eleanor-"

Her mother took her father's face in her hands and pressed her forehead to his. "Hush, Bryce. I don't want to live in this world without you...our children will carry on without us." She turned to her daughter and Duncan. Lyra had no idea what sort of terror her face must have held, but her mother donned a mask of determination as she gave Lyra her last command.

"Go, Lyra. Warn Fergus. Live, and see that Howe dies for his treachery. Duncan, keep her safe."

Nearly choking, Lyra reached for her mother's hand and leaned forward to brush her lips over Eleanor's cheek. "I love you both, so much..."

Duncan lifted the trapdoor leading to the tunnel, and they began to run, the heavy slam of the door shutting her away from her parents forever.

 


	4. Joining Alistair

**Chapter 3  
** **Joining Alistair**

Ostagar was impressive. An old ruin, perhaps, but an impressive one.

Lyra surveyed the fort, her lower lip disappearing between her teeth. She looked down at Kestrel, who panted up at her. "Well, go with Duncan. I'll be fine without you for an hour, boy." She gave his ears a twitch. Kestrel whined and tilted his head, but at her pointed look, he _whuffed_ and followed the elder Grey Warden across the bridge. Lyra trailed slowly after them, enjoying the leisure to really take in her surroundings. Now that they were here, she wanted to stretch her legs and walk normally for the first time in five days.

Five days... five days of fleeing, of watching her back, of wondering if Howe was on her heels, of keeping to the shadows and traveling from sunrise til sunset. Her first few days had been an agony of tears and blinding emotional pain, of struggling to accept the fact that her family was gone. Her emotions began to run dry on the third day, though her eyes still ached from the strain. Her muscles had finally begun to harden up under the constant exertion, but every bone in her body still ached with deep sadness and fatigue. She _had_ been sleeping, thank goodness, but only because by the time they stopped she was ready to drop from exhaustion. There was rest to be had in body, if not in spirit.

Before Duncan had left her, she’d met the king of Ferelden – surely a landmark in any young noblewoman's life. But Cailan had seemed so... boyish. It was the only word for it. Blonde, good-looking, the traditional image of a young king - she supposed _most_ people were charmed with him. In her opinion, he seemed more like a fanciful youth than a man ready to lead his country to victory. Kings should look more like... Duncan. Or her father. She only hoped that Loghain Mac Tir was all the tales said of him, since _he_ was the leader of the armies. Every story she’d heard about Teyrn Loghain boasted hard work and independence; a man with an iron will, but tempered with wisdom. Cailan could stand at the front and glitter, for all she cared, as long as someone competent was giving the orders.

The king had professed deep shock and sympathy for the loss of her family, but she didn't expect much in the way of help from the throne. Not with a Blight looming, even if Cailan doubted it really was, in fact, a Blight.

After listening to Cailan's sympathetic noises about her loss, Lyra had begged leave to go search for her brother Fergus, who was scouting somewhere in the Korcari Wilds. Cailan had apologetically denied her request, saying that with the battle upcoming it was simply impossible to send a search party out after him, and there was no way she could go alone. The pent up emotion had proven too much, and she had completely lost her temper with the king. Cailan was taken aback at her vehemence, but held firm – she had her duty to the Wardens to think of, and once the battle was done he would turn his armies north to bring Howe to justice. Until then, she would need to be patient. Lyra had bitten her lip, taken hold of her ire and acquiesced with as much grace as she could muster, acknowledging that there was little Cailan could actually do for her at the moment.

Never had she felt so very alone. Her duty stretched out before her like a line of fire ants, never-ending and making her skin crawl with impatience. Revenge would have to wait. She shouldered her burden and continued into Ostagar, shoving her grief down into a compact bundle, tied up with stubbornness.

What was the junior Warden's name again? Alan? Adan? Alis...Alistair. Duncan had said to find him – the man was supposed to answer any questions she might have. She chewed the inside of her cheek and pulled her helmet from her aching head, tempted to let her hair down and rub some of the sweat and dust away. It had been three days since her last bath, and Lyra doubted she smelled very good. She settled with massaging her fingers beneath the heavy braids, then strapped the helmet back on her head and looked around. One way was bound to be as good as another, so choosing a direction at random, she strode through the camp, focused on finding her new mentor.

.oOo.

"And I was going to name one of my children after you. The _grumpy_ one."

The mage snarled a response and stalked off. Lyra looked on, amused at the flippant exchange she’d just witnessed. The young man who’d been speaking turned and saw her, and threw her a happy grin, showing off a pair of dimples.

"That's the wonderful thing about a Blight... it really brings people together." His voice was friendly, and Lyra couldn't help but smile at the ridiculous notion. The last time she’d smiled had been before she’d left Highever, but... it felt good. Thus cheered, she walked forward to meet him.

"Are you Alistair?" She looked the young man over. He was taller than she, but only by a few inches, which put him at roughly six feet. Both Fergus and her father towered to an impressive six feet, four inches, so to Lyra’s eyes, this young man didn’t seem overly tall. She barely had to raise her chin to meet his gaze. He was muscular, as any knight should be, and armored in gray splintmail, with a standard longsword strapped to his back. Short, reddish-blonde hair – not quite auburn, too much gold – and it stuck up in the front. Somehow, the style looked carefully contrived, as though he’d spent time arranging each strand to his own satisfaction. Friendly, hazel eyes glinted at her, and a days' worth of stubble flashed golden in the afternoon light. He certainly was handsome, and apparently had a fair sense of humor to boot. Something about his face niggled at her memory, although she couldn't imagine where she might have met him before.

His eyes widened slightly, and he took her in, his eyes raking her from ankle to neck in confusion. "I-I'm sorry, what did you say?"

 _Was I unclear?_ she wondered, and tried again. "I said, are you Alistair? If you are, I'm supposed to find you... Duncan sent me. I'm the newest Grey Warden recruit."

He blinked and shook his head, and then smiled at her sheepishly. "I - I'm sorry, you took me by surprise. I didn't realize you were a woman until you spoke. Your voice, it caught me off guard... We don't see too many women in armor around here."

She raised an eyebrow. _Maybe I look more like a boy than Fergus thought...Oriana was right_ , she thought grimly. "Why not? Don't think a woman can fight as well as you men?" Her tone was challenging, and she was gratified to see that it made him stumble to reassure her.

"No, not at all! I'm sure you're a fine fighter. Possibly more than fine, since you're _here_ , and if Duncan recruited you. Just because you're a woman doesn't mean you're only... ahhh... Just... look, we've started badly, and it's my fault. Let me begin again. Yes, I am Alistair. And you are...?"

She eyed him for a moment. His expression was so befuddled, it made her bite her lip with humor. Oafish he might be, but he _seemed_ sincere, and his eyes pled for her to forgive his assumptions. She softened, holding out her hand. "I'm Lyra."

Alistair’s grip was firm, his smile relieved. "Lyra. It's a pleasure.” His hand left hers, though the smile remained, and shifted into something more relaxed. “So you're our newest recruit, are you? Welcome to Ostagar. Have you seen the many sights yet? There's the mage camp, the healers' tents, the demonstrations of darkspawn and how to kill them..." Her somber face smiled, and Alistair’s lips tugged further upward in response. "Seriously, though. I know Duncan has plans for the recruits, but is there anything you need to do before we get started? We'll probably be fairly busy for a little while, so now's a good time."

A sudden itch in her scalp prompted the thought. She unstrapped her helmet and turned it over in her hands. "I could use a new strap on this helmet. Is there a decent armorer in camp?"

He gestured. "Follow me."

They fell in beside each other, walking casually through the camp. Things were bustling with preparations for war. Elven servants scurried to and fro, running messages and delivering various sundries. Men shouted, dogs barked – Lyra glanced over one shoulder to see a makeshift kennel set up near a grouping of trees. The sound of mabari barking was almost home-like, though there had only been a few at Highever. Around various fires, soldiers gobbled hurried meals, sharpened weapons, or played at cards or dice. A scantily-dressed woman brushed past them as they walked, throwing Alistair an inviting smile. The Warden ignored her, but Lyra felt her cheeks burning. _Camp followers..._ Lyra thought. _Where there are soldiers, there's bound to be... businesswomen_.

Alistair cleared his throat self-consciously, and gestured to the object in her hands. "Looks like a good helmet, but I admit I've never seen the style. Where did you say you were from?" he asked, obviously seeking a topic of conversation.

"I... I'm from Highever." She studied the ground, her tightly packaged grief fraying at the strings.

"Never been there, myself. I spent most of my life in Redcliffe. Heard of it?"

She nodded, swallowing. "Arl Eamon. My family went there once... for his wedding."

Alistair looked at her more closely. "Did you really? Wait... you said your name is Lyra? Of course! How could I be so stupid? You're Lyra Cousland, Teyrn Bryce and Lady Eleanor's daughter!" He grinned at her, and she suddenly realized why he seemed familiar... Alistair! Of course – they’d been playmates twelve years ago, nearly inseparable during the week-long visit to Redcliffe. The events of that week came rushing back, and the initial tinge of surprise and pleasure at meeting an old friend turned sinister with the unwelcome recollections of her family.

Alistair chattered on, unaware of what his trip down memory lane was doing to her control. "I only met your parents once, during the wedding week, but they seemed like grand people. Lady Eleanor was so kind… I was only eleven. I think you must have been about seven or eight..."

Like a waterfall, his words flowed over her, wearing away the careful wall she’d built to dam the flood. The tide of memories threatened to drown her, and Lyra’s pace slowed, finally coming to a complete halt as she fought to keep breathing. She clenched her eyes shut, sequestering herself from at least _one_ of her senses.

“I remember Thomas saying something about a game, and you didn’t want to play...” Alistair’s voice trailed off as he walked on, and then she heard him stop, turn back. His boots crunched through the gravel as he approached. “Uh… you okay?”

He sounded concerned. Lyra clenched her fists, drawing a deep breath, not trusting herself to open her eyes just yet. “Sorry. I need a moment,” she gritted.

“Uh… do you need a healer? The mages are close by-“

“No.” Blinking, she swallowed, lifting her chin in determination. This would _not_ break her. She was stronger than this, better than this. “Sorry. I’m fine.” Lyra dredged her eyes open, praying the look on his face wouldn’t unleash her tears.

He _did_ look concerned. “Um… okay,” Alistair said, sounding puzzled. “So, I was about to ask you if you recalled that day in Redcliffe.”

She shrugged, affecting an uncaring air as she focused on the ground. If she could make him stop talking about it, she could keep it locked down. “I confess I don’t remember. I was pretty young, after all.”

“…Oh.” He sounded disappointed, and when she looked up she was surprised to see it reflected on his face. “I was certain you would. What about – well, Thomas caused this fight, and then you were banished to your room for the day, and… the two of us had lessons together, before the Summerday celebrations.” He was mumbling now, but his hazel eyes flecked toward hers, naked hope simmering within.

“Sorry, I don’t remember,” she muttered. The hurt that threaded his face twisted her stomach a little, but she ignored it, too caught up in her own struggle to fully realize what her rejection was doing to him. Lyra continued forward, hoping he would get the hint, and after a moment he followed, then took the lead once more.

The silence was awkward. Alistair scratched uneasily at his neck, then cleared his throat. "I met your brother, as well... what was his name..."

"Fergus," she said. The word came out crisper than she’d meant it to.

"That was it. Great chap, I remember thinking how I hoped I’d be as tall as he was. That would have made him, what..."

"Fifteen," she muttered, wishing he’d just _drop_ it already.

"Wow.” Alistair fell silent, and Lyra dared a glance at him. His brows were creased, hurt confusion digging rows into his forehead. “I guess that was a long time ago.”

There were no other words as they made their way to a small overhang of cloth. "So. The armorer is right here..." In the pale shadows of the tent, Lyra could make out a man seated on a stool, hunched over a mesh suit of chain. "Shall I leave you, then, or..." he let the words trail off.

She glanced at him, alarmed that he might leave her. "Oh, um, no, please. It shouldn't take a moment. Stay." She stepped quickly into the tent, and the armorer looked up as she held the helmet out to him.

.oOo.

Alistair watched from outside the tent, wondering if his memory was playing tricks on him. The girl he'd known in Redcliffe had been full of life... this one was aloof and quiet. _I suppose it's too much to hope that she might remember me,_ he thought. _She's a noble, and I'm a nobody_.

"Alistair, there you are." Duncan's voice broke the warm afternoon. "You've met Lyra, I see."

Alistair offered his mentor a grin, glad to see the elder rogue returned. "Duncan, hello! Yes, she found me a little while ago, and asked me to show her to the armorer."

Within the tent, Lyra was speaking with the armor master, her shapely hands offering the helmet for inspection. Master Johen, the armorer, gave a quick nod as he looked it over, and reached for his tools. She watched intently, her face serious, those wide eyes intent. Alistair peered at her, recommitting her features to his memory. It had been years since he’d seen her last, though not twelve, as she believed... a scant five. She’d been skinnier, her features less... finished. There was a maturity now that had been lacking in her younger years.

He’d been beyond shocked when he realized just who it was that stood before him. Lyra Cousland, the girl who’d been his first childhood friend. He’d spent years alone in Castle Redcliffe, secluded from the other children, not allowed to go to the school in the village, tutored privately by a Chantry sister instead. It was Eamon’s wedding that had brought other children into his life for the first time, and the week had been too busy and too full of people for anyone to remember Alistair and keep him from interacting with them. Those memories were precious, and to realize that she didn’t share them.... Alistair ran their words through his mind again, wondering if he'd somehow done something wrong without knowing it.

"Alistair, may I speak with you for a moment?" Duncan asked, and the junior Warden looked up quickly, drawing his eyes away from the girl and her study of the armor master.

"Oh, certainly, Duncan. Lyra, excuse us, please." She looked up and gave him a small smile, and Alistair followed Duncan away from the tent.

"How have things been here?" Duncan asked.

"Fine. Well, mostly. Daveth got in a bit of trouble with one of the female soldiers, but nothing that needed intervention...from what I heard, she threatened to, what was it... 'unman' him if he propositioned her again, and that was the end of that. Ser Jory is eager to have the Joining done. Patience apparently isn't his strong suit. And now that you and Lyra are here, we can get started."

Duncan looked back at Lyra, and jerked his head in her direction. "What do you think of our newest recruit, Alistair?"

The young Warden glanced back. Lyra’s eyes were locked on the armorer as if it was the most vital thing on earth.

"She seems a bit... intense. Does she have any sense of humor?" Alistair asked.

"I really couldn't say, son. It was a rather quiet journey, but understandably so. House Cousland was massacred a few days ago."

Alistair blinked, and then wondered if he'd heard correctly. "House...her family? They're gone? The Couslands? But... Andraste’s flaming sword, what happened, Duncan?" _Lady Eleanor... Teyrn Bryce... dead?_

Duncan turned to look at Lyra, and sighed. "She's a very talented fighter – at least, I have heard amazing things, and from several sources. Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to see her in action. The night after I arrived, Arl Howe orchestrated an attack on the castle. The army had been sent ahead, and the Couslands were caught unprepared. Bryce, Eleanor, their daughter-in-law, their grandchild... killed. Fergus was gone with the army, and Lyra and I escaped, but she is suffering, and that is why. I thought it best that you know, so that you could be prepared for anything."

Alistair groaned. "Five minutes with her, and I wouldn't be surprised if she never speaks to me again. How do I do it?"

"What happened?" Duncan asked wearily.

"I recognized her. Her family visited Redcliffe when we were children, and I went on and on, talking about her parents and her brother. She got very quiet. Maker, I'm an idiot." He hung his head, wondering what had possessed him to bring up such personal details within the first few minutes of their meeting.

Duncan sighed, his annoyance telegraphed in the simple sound. Alistair kicked at the dirt, the metal toes of his boots digging into the gravel. His knack of getting off on the wrong foot apparently hadn’t changed. But, even if Lyra decided she couldn’t stand him, he hoped they could work together. Wardens needed to trust each other; at times, their very lives depended on it.

"She seems like a sensible young woman, Alistair. Just... be kind." He put his hand on the young man's shoulder and gave a squeeze. “I’ve got some meetings to attend. I’ll check back with you later.”

Alistair squared his shoulders, smiled briefly at Duncan, and walked back toward Lyra, who had taken her helmet from the armorer and was ducking back out of the tent. He hesitated, and then decided to seize fate and just... hope it shook out alright. What else _could_ he do?

"How's the helmet?" Alistair asked by way of greeting.

"Seems to be fine... Master Johen was able to attach a new strap with no trouble. Thank the Maker for that – it was banging my head for days. Do you know, Duncan made me _run_ the whole way here?" She smiled, and Alistair's heart flip-flopped. Was he forgiven so easily?

He smiled in return, feeling the sunshine flood back into his mood. "Duncan is a taskmaster, that's for sure. Um, have you met the other recruits?"

"No, you're the first.”

"Well, c'mon. Let's go round up some Wardens... I’ll introduce you before we head into the Wilds."

“The Wilds?” she asked, taking up her former spot at his side.

Alistair nodded. “Duncan has an errand for us to run, before we can begin the Joining.”

.oOo.

The four of them stood in a secluded area of camp, away from the quiet activity of Ostagar. Night had fallen, and Lyra shivered in her boots, not just from the chill. Now was the moment... the Joining.

After finding Ser Jory and Daveth, Duncan had instructed the foursome to go into the woods nearby – the Korcari Wilds, as they were known – to bring back enough Darkspawn blood for the Joining ritual. Lyra had heard very little about these woods, having grown up in the northernmost part of Ferelden, but Daveth was more than happy to bring her up to speed. He told her solemnly of the Chasind barbarians, the blight wolves and bereskarns, the men who’d disappeared without a trace... and of course, the Witches of the Wilds. She’d nearly laughed at him when he said that. Daveth had grown up nearby, and so of course he knew all the local lore, but how could anyone really believe in witches? The rogue was a grown man, and she was amazed that anyone could take such tales seriously. Mages were one thing, but witches? It didn't seem likely.

And then, they’d met Morrigan.

Of course, no magic was done, so it didn't necessarily follow that she was a witch. But there was definitely... _something_ about her. They had approached a deserted, tumble-down building in the middle of the woods when she'd... appeared, out of nowhere. They'd been so frustratingly close to the very thing they'd sought - the Grey Warden treaties. But they hadn’t been there - Morrigan and her mother had the treaties. Odder still.

But regardless of Morrigan, the treaties had been found, the Darkspawn killed, the necessary blood collected. Lyra thought she’d impressed the men with her abilities, but they hadn't said much... a few glances between themselves, perhaps. It was enough, for now. She was simply happy to be accepted among them.

Daveth seemed a good sort, if a bit base. Ser Jory was nice enough, but stuffy. She remembered him from Highever - he’d never impressed her. Alistair seemed to be the friendliest of all, if lacking in basic tact. She could see herself fitting in with them, fighting next to them. It felt good to belong somewhere.

Duncan walked out of the darkness, startling her with a sudden, purposeful boot-thud on the stones. Alistair had told her he was a well-trained rogue, and seeing his silent, graceful walk, Lyra could believe it.

"Now is the time for the Joining," he said solemnly. He explained a few things, and Lyra was shocked to learn that they would be drinking the Darkspawn blood they had obtained, now that it had been prepared in the proper way. She nearly retched at the thought, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat. Then Duncan said something else, and her eyes widened.

"You mean... this ritual could kill us?" Lyra asked, wondering if she'd heard right.

He flicked a glance in her direction. "Nothing is guaranteed. You are called, and you are committed. There are a few words that have been said at every Joining since the beginning. Alistair, will you say them now?"

Alistair's jovial face grew solemn, and he murmured the words reverently. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us as we stand in the shadows vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And, should you die, know that one day, we... shall join you." His stare slid to Lyra, and then away, his eyes shadowed and worried.

Duncan's voice was soft, but it carried tremendous weight. "Daveth, step forth."

The ex-thief looked at the rest of them with wide eyes, then stepped up to Duncan hesitantly. Lyra thought she saw Alistair holding his breath.

Daveth sipped from the cup, the silver chalice gleaming with the moon’s kiss. Lyra watched, her stomach twisting with fear. When Daveth doubled at the waist, she gasped, watching in horror as he fell to his knees, shaking and sweating. A scream bubbled from his lips, a terrible, pain-filled sound that sent chills racing over her skin. His eyes seemed to roll up into his head, and only the whites showed, giving him a blank, haunted countenance. Lyra darted a glance at Alistair, panic racing in her veins. He looked back at her, sadness darkening his face.

"He has paid the price now, rather than later. Daveth, we thank you for your sacrifice." Duncan stepped closer to the fallen man, making a few gestures over his convulsing body. Daveth shuddered once, twice, then stilled completely, becoming an empty husk.

The senior Warden knelt and closed his empty eyes, then stood, turning back to the recruits. "Ser Jory, step forth."

Lyra’s gaze shot to the knight. Naked terror pooled in his eyes, and he began to stammer about honor, and deceit, and how if only he'd known... The man pulled his sword and swung at Duncan, babbling nonsense. Duncan spoke soothing words, but Ser Jory would not be comforted, and rushed the senior Warden. A fearful cry stilled on Lyra’s lips when Duncan produced a shining, crescent-shaped dagger, ending Ser Jory's life with one upward thrust. "I am sorry..." he whispered into Ser Jory's ear. The knight made a gurgling sound, and slid to the ground, Duncan’s reddened blade buried within his gut.

Lyra was horrified. She stepped back involuntarily, choked breaths stuttering from her lungs, and Alistair's hand caught the small of her back and held her firm.

"Lyra, step forth."

Her feet were leaden, her stomach churning. How could she do this, knowing she would likely die? Having seen the _kind_ of death hers would be? Could she bring that cup to her lips and drink that foul magic? Knowingly sign her own death warrant? Was it better to try and run, and have her end come quickly, on the clean end of a blade?

But then, she might _not_ die. Surely, some survived... Duncan and Alistair were the proof of that. _The Wardens_ need _people_ , a small voice echoed within her. _And it was Father’s last request..._

She thought of her parents, holding tightly to each other as she fled down the tunnel. Oren’s shining face. Oriana’s laugh. Fergus, likely already dead as well... her fears calmed.

What did she really have to hold her here?

She reached for the cup and tipped its contents into her mouth, gladly, willingly.

Thick, viscous, the taste was foul beyond imagining - her eyes flew open, and she nearly lost the contents of her stomach right then and there. But some primal instinct took hold, and she drained the cup, her body craving every drop. The chalice tumbled from her fingers, falling unnoticed to the stones below.

For a moment, there was nothing... and then she ignited. Fire coursed through her veins, ice water chased behind, quenching the flames and turning her to steel. Her body was being forged, ripped, battered and hammered. She felt herself _change_... her body arced backward, and she stared into the night sky, taking in the thousands of stars and feeling them race to receive her. The world was more magnificent than she’d ever known... and then, as she faded, she heard Duncan’s voice say, "Welcome, Grey Warden."

.oOo.

Alistair caught her as she slumped, hitching her up into his arms.

“One, at least,” Duncan said with a relieved breath. “Take her back to the fire, and lay her down - she’ll awaken soon. I’ll take care of the others.”

Nodding, Alistair did as he was bade, easing the unconscious woman down onto the thin blanket that made her bedroll, wishing he had something to pillow her head with. Once Lyra was as comfortable as he could make her, he stood and hurried back to Duncan.

“No, you needn’t, Alistair,” Duncan said when he began to gather Daveth’s body. “Go back and sit with her... I’ll have a few other Wardens come to help me with their pyres.”

A full-grown mabari hound had plopped himself down beside Lyra, looking every bit as menacing as one of the breed should. Alistair slowed when he walked back into the fire circle, and the dog growled at the new intrusion.

Though he’d never had a mabari, he’d always wanted one. The dogs chose their own masters, however, and none had ever seen fit to choose Alistair. That didn’t mean Alistair didn’t know how to handle one, though. Legend had it that mabari were intelligent enough _not_ to talk, and that they understood speech better than most humans. He decided an introduction was in order.

“Um... I’m Alistair, one of her fellow Wardens,” he began, and the dog stared. Feeling a touch silly, Alistair took a cautious step closer, but there was no growl warning him back. “Wish I could ask your name. Your mistress?” Alistair asked, gesturing to Lyra, and the dog barked. “She’ll wake up in awhile. Promise.... Are you hungry?” He made his slow way to the fire, the mabari’s eyes trained on his every movement. Dishing up a portion of stew, he set it nearby, then backed off again with his own bowl.

After awhile, the beast left Lyra’s side and wolfed down his dinner, then padded over to Alistair and sniffed. Alistair held still, well aware of how quickly he could be made into mincemeat if the dog decided such an action was necessary. But then the dog nosed his hand, working Alistair’s fingers over his ear with a suggestive _whuff_. Alistair chuckled, obliging the animal with a thorough ear-scratching, and then the mabari sighed and curled up beside Lyra once more.

So the time passed as Duncan and a few others took Jory and Daveth away to be ceremonially cremated. A pinch of their ashes would be added to the pouch of Warden ashes Duncan carried, and taken to Weisshaupt when Duncan left for his Calling - which, according to the senior Warden, wasn’t all that far off.

Alistair didn’t like lingering on thoughts like these, though. He’d finally found a place in the world where he felt he belonged, and that was with the Wardens. The idea that his newfound world could change in any way terrified him.

Duncan returned soon after, joining him in his vigil. He said nothing about the dog, though he did nod hello. Unless Alistair was very much mistaken, the dog nodded back.

"Two more deaths. Only one of us died at my Joining," Alistair said sadly.

"I knew she would make it through. She's the best I have seen since... well, since you, my boy," Duncan replied.

.oOo.

Lyra awoke sometime later, lying on her own bedroll. Her eyes drifted open, then closed again, her head spinning. Duncan peered down at her from her left, and Alistair sat on her right, both of them staring intently. It was unnerving, knowing she was being inspected like an insect under glass. She felt the gentle touch of a damp cloth sponging her forehead, and forced her eyes open.

"You're awake... how do you feel?" The junior Warden’s voice was worried.

"Like a carriage ran me over," she groaned, then forced herself to sit up, the pain in her head fading as she came fully awake. "I'm alive...." Her heart jumped, and suddenly she was intensely aware of everything; the moonlight filtering down, the hard stones beneath her bedroll, the silken air caressing her skin. The heavenly aroma of stew filled her nostrils, and her mouth watered with longing. She’d been so certain she wouldn't wake up, and it was exhilarating to know that she’d made it through!

Duncan nodded in understanding, a gentle smile touching his lips. "You _are_ alive. Alistair, the Oath."

Alistair reached into a pouch at his belt and pressed something small into her hand. It was oddly warm, and she opened her hand to see a tiny glass vial threaded on black leather cording.

"We take a bit of the Darkspawn blood and put it in a pendant, to remind you of how you got here, and of the ones who didn't make it as far. We call it the 'Warden's Oath',” Alistair offered.

Lyra pressed her free hand to her forehead, attempting to clear the fog that clouded her mind. For some reason, the only response that came to mind was, "We've only just met, Alistair. You shouldn't be giving me jewelry." She smiled at him, her mouth quirking with humor.

His brows shot skyward, and he bit back a snicker, eyes sparkling with appreciation. Duncan chuckled, and said "I think she's just fine."

"Yes, I am... I'll get up. Did anyone think to make dinner? I'm absolutely starved." The cord untied easily enough, and Lyra fastened it around her neck. It felt different - but then, so did she.

"Yes, there is food by the fire there. Help yourself. Alistair, will you stay with her for awhile? I need to meet with Cailan and Loghain." Without waiting for a reply, Duncan left them. Kestrel yelped at her, dancing in eagerness and lifting his paws, and she knelt with a happy grin.

"Hey, boy! I'm just fine, don't you worry about me..." Lyra frisked the dog’s ears, giggling when he tried to knock her over. Alistair knelt by the fire and stirred the pot of stew, sending up another waft of scent that made her stomach gnaw itself.

"He's yours, I take it?" Alistair asked as he filled two trenchers with beef and onions. "I always wanted a mabari. What's his name?"

"Kestrel." Lyra smiled a little, and brushed off her hands. She accepted the trencher he handed her, hurrying to take a mouth-scorching bite. _Sweet Maker_... So hot it burned her tongue, the meat greasy and low-grade, the bread undoubtedly day-old... but she doubted she’d ever tasted anything half as delicious.

"Interesting name for a dog. Isn't a kestrel a kind of bird?"

She stopped eating and eyed Alistair warily, then gazed at her lap. A piece of onion lost its tenuous balance and fell onto her leg, and she slowly picked it up and popped it into her mouth. _I can't pretend it didn't happen_ , she thought. _There will be reminders every day, and no one will be able to talk to me if I insist on ignoring the fact that my family is gone... He means well. Answer him, damnit._ Coming to a decision, she spoke.

Alistair’s mouth was full, his enjoyment of the food apparently as great as her own. His eyes were friendly as he waited for her answer, unaware of the inner struggle she’d just completed.

"Yes, it is, I suppose. My brother Fergus had his own hawk, but he wanted a hound. So, he named the bird ‘Mabari’. A few years later, I got Kestrel... and so I named him, ‘Kestrel’. It was sort of a joke between us."

Alistair lowered the trencher from his mouth, his forehead furrowing. "Lyra, I'm sorry. I... I had no idea earlier when I asked you about your family, and I brought up all of... well, everything. Duncan told me what happened, and... damn. I feel like the biggest fool in Ferelden. I can't tell you how sorry I am, for... for what happened to you, and for opening my big, stupid mouth. I don't mean to be an idiot, but it seems like I can't be anything else. I hope you'll forgive me... I don't want us to get off on the wrong foot."

She’d stopped eating to listen to his little speech, but then her hunger demanded attention and she took another voracious bite. Alistair dug back into his food as well, some of the stress leaving his eyes now that he’d spoken his piece. Lyra took a few more bites, and licked gravy from her fingers.

"You were like this when you were a child, too. I remember," she said.

He looked up in surprise, a dribble of gravy running down his chin. "You said you didn't remember-"

"Awkward. That's the thing that I remember most about you. Awkward...and the hair. I've never seen hair like yours before. It's quite nice, really. Sort of a lovely blonde-red color." She took the last few bites and licked her fingers again. “You’ve got something - just there.”

Alistair flushed, bringing his arm up to swipe his chin mostly clean. "I'm... awkward?"

She stood and brushed crumbs from her lap. "Awkward. But sweet." She smiled mischievously at him and sauntered away, Kestrel at her heels. A laugh bubbled from her lips as she remembered the befuddled way Alistair had looked at her.


	5. The First Battle

**Chapter 4  
The First Battle**

Scooping the last forkful of fried egg into her mouth, Lyra wiped a dribble of yolk from the corner of her lip with her thumb, feeling a touch self-conscious. Her eyes skimmed the pan Duncan had used, hoping to find...  _something_  more. Despite the four eggs and generous chunk of bread she'd already downed, she still wasn't full.

Alistair must have seen her longing look, for he whistled, grabbing her attention as he tossed a chunk of cheese wrapped in brown paper toward her. She snatched it out of the air, grinning her thanks at him. The two of them had stayed up quite late the night before, talking. It had been nice to discover that they got on rather well together. And that he wasn't nearly as tactless as she'd originally thought.

"Thanks. I'm just so hungry! I don't understand it... I was never like this before. My mother said I ate like a bird - by which she meant not very much at all."

"That's one thing that changes after the Joining... you'll never eat a small meal again, I promise you that. What's funny is that now, you really  _do_  eat like a bird - meaning, more than you should be able to hold for your own body weight, and very frequently!" Snickering, Alistair turned back to his own food.

Duncan said nothing as he leaned over the pan once more, simply offering Lyra a quiet smile. He cracked three more eggs into the sizzling bacon grease, tipping them onto her waiting plate a few moments later.

"So, Duncan. What's on today's agenda?" Alistair asked, setting his plate down for Kestrel to lick clean.

"Actually, I was about to bring that up, as soon as Lyra finished," Duncan said, a twinkle in his eye as he watched her tear another hunk from the loaf she and Alistair had been sharing. "There is a war council this morning, and King Cailan has requested your presence, Lyra."

"What about me, Duncan?" Alistair asked, cleaning his hands with a handkerchief. He'd pulled it from the pouch at his waist, the same place he'd retrieved the cheese from moments ago. For some reason, this amused Lyra - a common soldier, who carried a handkerchief?  _He does keep himself well,_  she thought. Once again his hair had been carefully styled, and he'd shaved, all signs of yesterday's stubble removed but for a small patch on his chin, which couldn't seem to decide if it wanted to grow or not.

"Not this time, Alistair. But you already know most of it, and we'll soon catch you up on the rest, never fear."

"Fine." Alistair adopted a martyred expression, heaving a huge sigh. "I didn't want to spend all day in council, anyway... I know! I'll take Kestrel hunting. What do you say, boy?"

Kestrel jumped up with a bark, wagging his short, stubby tail. Lyra was surprised at how much of a shine her mabari had already taken to Alistair. Kestrel was normally more picky about his mistress's companions. It had taken years for him to accept Rory.

_But then, maybe_   _it's merely a sign that he has the capacity to be a very good friend_. She watched Kestrel and Alistair jog from the camp, her thoughts following them out into the woods. When she'd finished her eggs and Duncan gestured for her to accompany him, it was with a sigh of longing that she wished she'd been able to go with them.

.oOo.

The council was hours long, devouring most of the day, and boring enough to put a scholar to sleep... reviewing maps, talking about territory, figuring out angles, discussing wind resistance. What puzzled Lyra was it all seemed to have been said before - this was nothing more than a big rehash. But, she'd never been part of a war council; perhaps this was standard. Teyrn Loghain seemed to know what he was doing, which brought a measure of relief.

The scouts had brought back word that if there was to be a battle, tonight would be the night. Darkspawn activity brewed to the south, and troop movements were being coordinated. Lyra's stomach knotted up to hear this, but she supposed her first battle would have to come sometime.

_I wanted this_ , she scolded herself.  _I begged Father to let me go with Fergus. You got your wish, Lyra. Now isn't the time to be squeamish._  She swallowed, banishing the lump that rose in her throat at the memory of her father. Time enough to mourn after dark, in the safety and quiet of her own bedroll. She'd not disgrace herself, or the memory of her parents, by looking weak in front of these hardened veterans.

Her stomach gave an unladylike rumble, and Lyra flushed, wondering if anyone else had heard it. This new appetite was unrelenting and frankly, unnerving. All of her life, she'd looked at her food and not wanted it - now, she couldn't get enough. Alistair had pulled the cheese from a pouch at his waist... she wondered where she might get one like his. In that moment, she'd have given just about anything to have a pouch of jerky at her belt.

"These Grey Wardens are not worthy of such trust, Cailan." Loghain's words brought her away from her stomach and back to the meeting. "You live in a fantasy world. You cannot give so much power to one group - it will mean your death." Loghain stared around at those assembled as he spoke, meeting the eyes of each.

"I have trust in them because they are heroes. Who better to lead us into this battle than the famed Grey Wardens? Now, if only the Archdemon would show himself... then we would have something worthy of the tales!" Lyra's ears perked up.  _Archdemon_... she tried to remember Alistair mentioning that.

"I say again, Cailan, these Grey Wardens are dangerous." Loghain's voice was strong, insistent. "You are foolish to trust them with so much. My men will enter the battle when the signal is lit, and you may be sure we will finish it."

"The beacon must be lit, yes? We'll send our best to do it. Duncan, have Lyra and Alistair take that duty." Cailan beamed at her, and Lyra smiled back, quirking an eyebrow when he looked away. Light the beacon? Would that mean being out of the battle?

The council ended shortly thereafter, and they found Alistair awaiting them back at their fire. Dusk approached, bringing with it a smattering of dark clouds and rapidly chilling weather. Early spring wind whipped at the few trees, scattering the remnants of autumn leaves revealed after the melt. Loghain's meeting had lasted most of the day and now the camp was all a-jumble, everyone scurrying to be prepared for the horns to blow.

Duncan dispatched a few runners to the other Wardens, then pulled Lyra and Alistair aside, explaining Cailan's directive. The two of them would scale the Tower of Ishal, lighting the beacon to signal Loghain's men.

"What? We won't be in the battle?" Alistair looked incredulous. "Anyone can throw a torch into a tinder pile... why in Thedas would Cailan want us to do it?"

Duncan shook his head. "He said we would send our best, and that was his reasoning. Alistair, it's an important job, and-"

"Yes, well. Bully for us." Alistair rolled his eyes, seeming disgusted.

Lyra spoke up. "Duncan, it's as Alistair says - it isn't difficult to light the beacon. I'm sure I can do it alone, and then you would have one more Grey Warden in the battle."

"No, my dear. Both of you will go." Duncan's face was stern, and Lyra didn't attempt to push the issue further.

Alistair sighed noisily. "Fine. But just so's you know, if Cailan asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line."

Lyra's eyebrows shot up as she pictured the muscular young man in a dress dancing the northern jig, and a giggle burst from her lips.

Alistair grinned at her, then leaned over. "I'd do it for you... but it would have to be a pretty dress," he whispered, his eyes sparkling. She snorted with mirth, clapping a hand over her mouth. Kestrel whuffed, shaking himself with a whine. Duncan raised his eyes to the sky, muttering something about patience and young fools.

The first horn sounded, and Duncan said, "You should go. Be ready - you'll know when." He clapped a hand on Alistair's shoulder, then smiled at Lyra as he turned to go.

"Duncan," Alistair called, his jovial eyes growing serious. The elder Warden turned. "Maker's blessing on you."

"Maker's blessing on us all," Duncan replied in a voice soft and graveled. His liquid eyes shone with something akin to pride, and he strode away.

.oOo.

From the edge of the stone ramparts atop the bridge, Lyra and Alistair watched with wide eyes as the horde flowed forward, a foul tide that reeked of death. Alistair grimaced as they came, appearing a bit green around the gills. At her curious look, he shrugged. "Darkspawn sense... there's an awful lot of them down there. Thousands."

"Will I be able to... feel them?" she asked, a touch apprehensive.

"Eventually," he said, his attention returning to the field below. Lyra focused as best she could through the murk - it was like peering through soup. Vaguely, she made out the empty strip of land that separated the human army from the beastly one; each group held back by an invisible barrier, awaiting the moment they would crash together in the hopes of obliterating their foe.

The tension grew, thrumming as tightly as a harp string, tightening Lyra's stomach. She held her breath.

A long, low blast rent the air, and the barrier broke, the armies charging toward each other, red murder in their voices, their blades thirsting for blood.

Archers lining the bridge loosed bolts into the gathering darkness below. Over the noise of the wind and rain Alistair shouted instructions, his voice drowning in the sea of sound. "The battle's beginning, we need to go! Now!"

Lyra pushed back from the low wall, urging her feet to move. The tower lay on the other side of the bridge, and-

A sudden shout from her companion, and Alistair's arm wrapped around her waist, spilling her to the earth with a sharp intake of breath. An explosion rocked the ground, the chunk of bridge Lyra had been headed for evaporating into nothing with the force of the boulder that had smashed through the stone. Kestrel yelped and danced, his frightened yips speeding Lyra's heart.

"We have to hurry - I don't know how much longer the bridge will last!" Alistair shouted in her ear, releasing her from his hold. She nodded, struggling to tame her racing pulse as she climbed to her feet. One mad dash later the three of them were across and running up the steps of the Tower of Ishal. They were met at the gate by a young soldier and a mage, the two of them panting for breath and quivering with fear.

"Wardens!" the mage gasped. "The tower has been overrun!"

"Overrun? What are you talking about, man? Spit it out!" Alistair demanded, eyes hardening.

"Darkspawn! We are overcome!" the soldier wailed. Lyra felt a flush of annoyance. Why was he whining, instead of killing the blasted things? As vile as they were, the creatures died just like anything else. She glanced at Alistair, and he nodded.

"You - come with us," she pointed to the mage, and the four of them raced toward the tower.

.oOo.

"I don't understand! How did they get in?" Alistair panted, sheathing his sword. The two of them were splattered with gore.

Lyra pulled her dagger from a Darkspawn corpse, planting her foot on its chest to aid the removal. Shuddering, she eyed the dripping blade, then muttered her thanks to Alistair when he handed her the handkerchief from his pouch. With careful fingers, she wiped the black blood from its surface as best she could before sheathing it and handing the cloth back to her companion. "I thought you were disappointed that we wouldn't be fighting."

Alistair gave a short laugh. "Right. Be careful what you wish for, and all that." Sheathing his sword, he glanced around the room, a curious look brightening his eyes. "Is that a chest over there?" He jogged to the corner of the chamber, and Lyra followed. "It is - it looks like a storage cabinet. The chantry stocked chests like this. Usually they were filled with healing poultices. Damn, I wish we had the key. If that's what's in here, it would be bound to come in handy..." Alistair trailed off in surprise as his companion pulled a small tool from her waistband. After a moment of fiddling with the lock, it snapped open, and Lyra tossed it aside. She flipped open the chest with barely a glance at him, pawing eagerly through it.

"You were right, healing poultices. Plenty of them. This should see us through the Blight and then some..." she joked, and began filling her pack. When Alistair said nothing, she looked up at him. "What are you staring at?" He didn't answer, and she said impatiently, "Did you want some poultices or not?"

He blinked, then knelt beside her to fill his own pack. "How does a teyrn's daughter learn to pick locks?"

She grinned at him. "Is that the beginning of some bad joke? I'll explain later, after we light the beacon."

With this Alistair would have to be content, for Lyra knotted her pack, slung it over her shoulder and strode off toward the staircase.

.oOo.

Lyra's eyes squinched shut, a thin hiss slipping between her teeth, her shoulder screaming in agony. She'd taken a nasty tumble, nearly wrenching the bone from its socket. Their mage companion lay dead at her feet, the rivulets of blood that spilled across the floor slowing as his heart beat its last. Kestrel was limping, and even Alistair seemed to be on his last legs.

"Ready?" Alistair asked, shooting her a glance.

"As I'll ever be," she gritted, rolling her aching shoulder.

They burst into the room at the top of the tower. Like a nightmare made real, the creature that awaited them hunched in the darkness, filling the room with its own brand of terror.

A huge being, at least ten feet tall and with purple skin, crouched in the corner... eating... something. A very messy, very...  _bloody_  something. Huge, curling horns sprouted from either side of its head, and even from across the room Lyra could smell the creature, so rank was its odor. She wondered idly if it could smell them, too...

Perhaps it did, for the ogre turned and saw them, letting out a roar loud enough to wake an Archdemon. Alistair charged forward, leading with his shield.

" _For the Grey Wardens!_ " she heard him cry, and then she was rushing forward with him, her injured shoulder forgotten. Slipping around the ogre's back, she slashed at the massive legs, hoping to hamstring the creature. But the ogre took off in a running charge, and her breath caught as Alistair was grazed. His shield dropped, and he grimaced, gripping his arm and flexing his fingers - his arm had gone numb.

Lyra sped forward, daggers upraised. A convenient bit of wooden planking acted as her springboard, and she leapt, catapulting herself through the air. Twisting her body, she landed, unbalanced, on the ogre's shoulders. The beast roared in annoyance, its meaty hands scrabbling at the annoying creature who dared such a maneuver. Lyra clung, slipping backward with a muted gasp. Lifting one dagger, she plunged it downward, grimacing as the blade severed skin and muscle. A hot gout of blood rushed forth when she pulled it free, her perch growing ever more slippery. The ogre roared again, thrashing and spinning. Lyra hauled herself up, her shoulder in flames, one leg throwing itself around the ogre's neck in a death grip. Both hands free now, she slammed her blades into the nape of the neck, severing the spinal cord with a vicious twist and wrench.

_The bigger they are, the harder they..._  The ogre toppled, crumbling beneath her, and Lyra leapt from the dead body with a triumphant look back at her companion.

Alistair hardly looked up, as he massaged his shield arm. "Well done. Let's light the beacon."

_Well done? Is that all you have to say? How many ogres have YOU killed today?_  Lyra thought, annoyed. Moments later, after the brazier had been coaxed into flame, she thought to tease him for his seemingly unimpressed attitude.

"Just 'well done', then?" she asked. Alistair looked up in surprise.

"Well, yes," he said. "Job well done." He went back to his shield, fastening it to his arm once more.

She rolled her eyes and went to retrieve her pack from the entrance, where they'd tossed them in their haste to attack the ogre. Gathering Alistair's pack as well, she trudged past the huge corpse to offer it to him. He was just shouldering his burden when a  _crash_ from the doorway whipped her head around.

Though the broken door poured dozens of Darkspawn, their leering faces chilling her blood. Lyra barely had time to draw her blades before she was overwhelmed...


	6. Wild Witches

**Chapter 5  
Wild Witches**

_A blackened scream shattered the walls of her mind, sickened by tinges of eerie green light. Shadows flickered, sucking the sun from the world, and she felt her chest heaving as she panted for breath. Fear suffused her, a nameless terror that coated the back of her tongue with bile as every bone in her body trembled with the need to_ run _. Yet her limbs wouldn't move, she froze as surely as a rabbit facing down a blight wolf. But this was no wolf that came for her..._

_A dragon._

_Larger than life, scales slicked with poison, it crouched upon a ruined landscape - the last living thing in a world torn asunder by flame and claw. Its sinuous gaze slithered over her, and there could be no doubt - she was to be its final victim..._

Gasping awake, Lyra bolted up, heart stuttering in her chest. Her wild eyes darted around the room as she struggled to remember just  _where_  she was.

Leather stretched tightly across a wooden frame composed her mattress, made cozy with a sinful cushion of sultry furs. Packed earthen walls surrounded her, the room's scant light provided by a few steadily-burning candles slowly melting upon a short table. Across the way, a low fire guttered in a stone hearth, and though it was difficult to make out, she could have sworn she spotted a  _skull_  among the many bowls, bottles and piles of herbs that littered one table...

The sound of a throat clearing, and Lyra startled again, realizing she was not alone. Her head whipped toward the voice, and she blinked, taking in the beautiful woman who sauntered toward her.

"Ah, you are awake. 'Tis two days since you came here. Mother will be most pleased."

Lyra flushed with embarrassment as she clutched the blanket around her nudity. But for smallclothes, she'd been stripped. Even her breast-band was gone - she peered at the woman, cudgeling her memory... "Morrigan?"

"You remember. Yes, you are in my mother's house. Do you recall how you came to be here?" Morrigan sat upon the bed, and Lyra's instincts urged her to draw herself in.

"I remember the battle... and I remember killing the ogre... and after that..."

"The darkspawn swarmed the stairs, intending to slaughter anything left alive. Undoubtedly, you would have died in that tower. My mother rescued you, and healed your wounds."

"How?"

"She turned herself into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from the rooftop like dead mice. If you do not believe me, ask her." Seemingly bored, Morrigan rose and returned to the fire where a pot of something delicious simmered, wafting a heavenly aroma throughout the tiny hut.

An insistent growl broke the quiet as Lyra's stomach made its wants known. Morrigan's eyes slanted in her direction, an amused quirk lifting one corner of her sultry mouth. Wordlessly, the witch filled a bowl from the cauldron, and Lyra accepted it with gratitude. Such was her hunger that she abandoned all thought of a spoon and simply brought the bowl to her lips. Her fingers served well enough to pull in chunks of meat and vegetables made tender by a rich gravy.

"This is delicious... what is it?" she asked through her mouthful.

"Skunk, carrot and dandelion." The witch's lip curled again.

Lyra rolled a piece of meat over her tongue, and decided that it really didn't taste bad. It was better than hunger, that was certain, so she swallowed her inhibitions with the meat and continued to shovel the food in.

"Your friend is outside. You should dress and go to him as soon as you're able... he is acting an utter moron," Morrigan commented.

"My friend. You mean Alistair?" Lyra's heart leapt. He was alive?

"I mean the whiny boy who can't stop blubbering for three minutes about how alone he is in the world."

Forgetting her nudity, Lyra set down the stew bowl and threw back the coverlet, then pulled it over herself again when she realized she had no clue where her clothing was. "Uh-"

An exasperated sigh left Morrigan's lips, and the witch pointed an impatient finger toward a trunk at the foot of the bed. Turning her back, she folded her arms as she waited for Lyra to dress, the set of her shoulders speaking volumes. Clearly, the woman thought her inhibitions ridiculous.

Blushing, Lyra scooted from the bed and dug into the trunk, finding the linen shift she normally wore beneath her armor and pulling it over her head. Not bothering with anything else lest Morrigan start snapping at her, she stepped from the hut, inhaling sharply at the chill morning air.

A reedy swamp opened before her, colorless in the pale light. The small lake rippled with silvery sparkles, and she squinted against the blinding brightness. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust before she spotted Alistair seated on a log at a small fire near the water's edge.

He was exhausted; this was plain to see in the set of his shoulders, and Lyra wondered if he'd slept at all. Kestrel was at his side, his hand gently stroking the mabari's head. Her bare feet numbed at the earth's icy caress, and she shivered as she padded over the spongy ground.

Kestrel saw her first, and to her surprise he remained at Alistair's side, whining softly at her. She caught a glimpse of the man's profile - haggard, lined, as though death itself haunted him. Little wonder her dog was worried.

"Alistair," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

He startled at her touch, turning around. Pale as a ghost, his breath caught at the sight of her, and he rose, strong arms trapping her in their warm embrace before she could say another word. "You're alive," he whispered.

Lyra blinked, taken aback at his open display, but after a breath she returned his desperate hug, squeezing him gently as he trembled in her arms. Was he... crying?

His hold tightened, and suddenly she was crying, too; in relief that it was over, in happiness that they'd made it through, in wonderment that someone she'd barely known four days should care whether she lived or died. Then the floodgates opened, and her heart began pouring tears onto his shoulder. She cried for Mother, for Father, for Fergus, Oren, Oriana, Rory... the list seemed never ending. Highever, burned... What had she  _not_  lost?

There was no telling how long they remained locked in their embrace, finding strength in each other. Eventually, Alistair shifted away, a self-conscious flush darkening his cheeks. Reluctantly, Lyra released him, laughing a bit as she dragged a hand across her tear stained cheeks.

"Oh, um..." Alistair dug in his belt pouch, coming up with a handkerchief and holding it out.

Another watery laugh tumbled from her lips as she took it from him, sniffling. "Are you always this chivalrous?" she murmured.

"Only when I see women crying," he offered, one corner of his mouth turning upward.

She blotted her eyes, then blew her nose. Crying  _always_  made her nose run. "I'll launder this for you. I doubt you want it back in it's present state."

Alistair gave her an uneasy smile and ran a hand over his hair. "I'm  _so_  glad to see you. Morrigan's mother told me you would be alright, but one day passed, and then another, and I was losing hope that you would wake up," he said quietly.

She sniffled again, giving a damp chuckle muffled by the handkerchief. "It takes more than Darkspawn to get rid of me, I'm afraid," she said with a small smile.

"I'm glad." Alistair sat down again near his fire. "Do you want to put on anything more... well,  _more,_  before we talk? I need to tell you what happened while you were out."

Lyra considered, then sat beside him on the log near the fire, adjusting her tunic to cover her knees. "It will warm up quickly, as the fog burns off. What happened with the battle? Did we get the beacon lit in time?"

Alistair eyed her bare feet, then reached into his pack and brought out a pair of thick, gray woolen socks. He offered them to her, and she quirked a brow. Alistair was concerned... about her feet. When she didn't take them right away, he tossed them in her lap with an expectant look. She giggled, then conceded, unrolling them and sliding them over her ankles. To her delight, his name had been stitched into them.

Satisfied with her concession to common sense, Alistair answered her question. "No. Or, maybe. But Loghain quit the field."

Lyra's heart stopped. "He...  _why_?"

"Maker knows. Duncan... is dead. Cailan is dead. The Grey Wardens are gone."

"Gone? Just like that? Alistair, how can that be?"

"Every Grey Warden in Ferelden was on that field...except for you and me, of course. Without Loghain's troops, it was a rout. They were massacred."

Something hit home. "Duncan is dead? And... King Cailan?"

Alistair nodded. "Yes." His face crumpled, and he folded in on himself as a tight tremor wound through him.

Lyra found herself unsure of what to do. Never before had she seen such emotion in a man... weeping and carrying on were womanly traits, things she did her best to avoid. But he wasn't  _whining_ , as Morrigan had said - Alistair was mourning, just as she was. Everything he'd loved had been lost on that field, and her heart went out to him... their situations weren't so different.

She extended a tentative hand, intending on patting his back, but it occurred to her how ridiculous this gesture would be. He wasn't a child, and in his armor he'd barely feel it anyway. Kestrel nudged his head beneath Alistair's hand, then swiped a rough tongue over the man's fingers. The dog looked to Lyra next, a pleading whine mirroring the request in his eyes.  _Help him_ , she could almost hear him say. Throwing Kestrel a desperate look, she held up her hands in helpless question. The mabari  _glared_  at her, then nudged Alistair's hand again, giving her the clue she needed.

Wetting her lips nervously, she reached out and took his hand, the soothing slide of warm flesh easing the tight knot in her chest. Alistair didn't look up, just held onto her as if his life depended on it. After a long moment the tension bled from his shoulders, leaving him loose and tired. Another moment, and he opened his eyes, meeting her concerned look with a nod and a swallow.

Lyra hadn't realized how comforting human contact could be, and she almost regretted it when Alistair eased her hand from his own with the ghost of a smile. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't lose control like that. It's just that... he was... like a father to me." The words seemed difficult, and Alistair took another moment before continuing. "I can't believe he's gone. I should have been there, I should have taken the blow."

Lyra shook her head, unable to answer, but certain that it was much, much better that Alistair hadn't died with his brothers.

"I don't know what to do, or where to go from here. Somehow, we've got to stop the Archdemon, or all of Thedas will be destroyed." Alistair raked an agitated hand through his hair, standing it on end. "There's so much... we should notify Arl Eamon of Cailan's death, or Loghain will likely tell any story he likes." His voice cracked with strain.

That triggered a memory, and Lyra spoke up. "Loghain... he was very insistent at the war council. Quite vocal about what a fool Cailan was to trust the Grey Wardens. Do you think we could have won the battle if Loghain hadn't left?"

"From Morrigan's account, I'd say it's likely. Quitting the field, though - it was a death sentence." Alistair's forehead crinkled. "You think Loghain had this planned?"

"I don't know. There's too little information right now. But it's worth investigating."

"Why would he do that?" Alistair seemed flabbergasted, rubbing his temple as the implications of what Lyra suggested washed over him.

"Power. Same reason anyone does anything," Lyra griped. "He's in a pretty position now, if that was his intention."

Alistair shook his head. "But the Blight... it doesn't matter who sits on the throne. If the Archdemon isn't stopped there won't  _be_  a throne of Ferelden to fight over. That should be our first concern." He took a deep breath, looking hopeful. "Any suggestions?"

"For stopping the Blight?" Alistair nodded in answer, and Lyra thought. "We can't do it alone, right?"

The man snorted. "Not a chance."

"Then we need help. Who can we call on? Do the Grey Wardens have friends? Allies?"

A wry look flitted over Alistair's face, but then his eyes opened wide. "Of course! The Grey Warden Treaties! Centuries ago, the dwarves, elves and mages signed treaties with the Grey Wardens, promising to aid them in the case of a Blight. We can go to them and demand aid. Lyra, we aren't alone after all!" He stood, scooped her into an embrace and spun her around, laughing.

Lyra gasped with surprise, throwing her arms around his neck as they whirled, but a moment later she was laughing with him, enjoying his exuberance. It seemed that when Alistair felt something, he  _felt_ it... apparently, there was no halfway with him.

"Warden, you're brilliant." He set her down with a happy sigh. "We can go to Arl Eamon, as well... I'm sure he'll aid us. His armies were delayed, he wasn't at Ostagar. In fact, maybe we should go see him first..." Alistair let the words trail away, seeming unsure. His shoulders lifted, and he dropped down again, picking up a stick to poke at the fire. "I actually don't really know what we should do first. That's one reason I was so relieved to see you just now."

A smile tickled Lyra's mouth as she sat beside him. "Were you relieved? Oh, I didn't know." She gave him a sidelong grin and tugged her tunic down over her exposed knees again, glad for the heavy socks he'd given her.

Alistair grinned back. "So I got a little... enthusiastic. But..." his tone turned serious. "I couldn't stand the thought of being alone. With this. This... task, that's been set before us. Like I said, I have no idea what to do first, where to go, who to talk to, if they'll take me seriously..." One hand found the back of his neck, his turmoil plain to see. "It's just... I've never had much responsibility, not like this. Aren't you scared of it?"

Lyra was surprised. "No... I mean, not really, I suppose. But I always knew I would have to lead in one capacity or another. Being my father's daughter  _meant_ responsibility. Whether I became the teyrn after him, or was given command of his armies - or even, heaven forbid, got married to some fool who expected me to run his household and prepare banquets..." she gave a short laugh. "Not that it ever felt very likely to me."

Alistair crossed his arms and leaned them on his knees, keen interest lighting his eyes. "You didn't want to get married?"

"Marriage... Um. That's a loaded question," she laughed.

"You don't have to answer," he hastened to reply. "I just... think it's interesting. I thought women liked getting married."

"Most women do, so I've heard... well, I guess there's no harm in an honest answer. I don't suppose I have to be as diplomatic with you as I had to be in Highever." She shifted her weight slightly, and began.

"Being a teyrn's daughter meant I had no lack of suitors. All were rich, came from good families, and you could say they were handsome. But... they were all so dull!" she chuckled. "It drove my mother to distraction, my lack of interest. She was eager for me to marry and provide her with more grandchildren, carry on the Cousland name and all that." Her eyes clouded a little at this statement, then cleared. "My parents married for love, and it was the most wonderful thing. Being a noble... you see more than enough intrigue. There are constant scandals. A teyrna who finds her husband in another's bed, or an arl who discovers his wife has been tumbling the groom. All seek to increase their holdings, move themselves closer to the king's influence. It's like... this incredibly convoluted dance that I had no interest in learning the steps to."

"Sounds dreadful," Alistair commented. "But then, I can't dance."

Mirth turned up the corners of her mouth. "I can't, either. Not really... well, I sort of can, I guess. I'm not the best, though." Picking up a small twig in her fingers, she twirled it slowly as she talked. "Arranged marriage is simply a part of it. But my parents were very, very kind... my brother married for love, unbelievably - though he had to go to Antiva to do it," she laughed. "I had always hoped to do the same-"

"Go to Antiva?" Alistair piped up with a grin.

"Marry for love, genius," she teased. "As I was saying... As much as my mother pushed, my father was firm about it. I would be allowed to make my own decision. But seeing the type of people I was surrounded with... Well. It didn't seem likely. Especially with my enjoyment of combat and knife work. Once a man saw my ability, he typically ran in the other direction. Either that, or he wasn't highly ranked enough to actually marry me." The memory of Rory Gilmore twisted her heart. "But here I am, educating you on the many charms of growing up as a noble when we have much more important things to discuss." She stood, smoothing the tunic down behind her as she brushed stray bits of bark from the linen. "I'll dress and we can make plans."

.oOo.

Alistair watched Lyra walk back toward the hut, his mind full of the conversation they'd just had. Interesting, to discover that even the noble set had their own problems. He'd often thought on the responsibilities that came with leadership, and it appealed  _not at all_. Even now, in this small capacity, he struggled - losing Duncan's competence was the worst thing that could have happened. Lyra was green as a baker's apple, and as for himself... bad things happened when he led.  _Bad_  things.

He tossed a twig into the fire, reaching over to ruffle Kestrel's ears. The mabari yawned, then got up and trotted back toward the hut, pawing at the door. It opened a moment later, and Alistair caught a glimpse of Lyra's shadow. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he recalled her lithe form appearing behind him, wrapped in nothing but a knee-length tunic the color of new wheat. Maker, didn't the woman know it was  _cold_  outside? What had inspired her to wear so little?

She'd looked damned adorable in his socks, though.

Staring into the fire, he considered all she'd told him. Not wanting to get married for politics, wanting to find love. It was something he was familiar with, as well - though any choice had been denied him. No opportunity even to  _meet_ a potential mate while growing up in the Chantry, and Grey Wardens didn't usually make lasting commitments.

_No lack of suitors..._  he thought, recalling her words. No, he didn't imagine she did. Though she'd spoken as if it was only her station the men had been interested in, he had a feeling she didn't really see herself for what she was. Of course, he might have been a bit biased - his memories of how they'd met in Redcliffe as children and the quick friendship they'd rekindled had him warming to her, perhaps too quickly. The dancing flames drew his vision, aiding his wandering mind, bringing him back to the way she'd looked as she sat beside him.

Dark hair, bound into those braids at the back of her neck - a bit severe, in his opinion. Just how long  _was_  her hair, if it could create those spiraling rounds? A long, shapely neck, kissed by the fine golden chain her Warden's Oath dangled from. Her linen tunic did little to hide the contours of her body - she was lean, with just enough swell of hip and curve of thigh to leave no doubt of her femininity.  _Thin_ , though - not a speck of fat on her, just smooth muscles and, yes, scars. It spoke of hours of training, drops of sweat shed in fierce competition with many, many others, probably most of them men. Thinking about it, he realized that Duncan had spoken truly - she was indeed a magnificent fighter. The way she slew the ogre... he wondered just how she'd made that leap. It was nothing short of amazing. Her legs were long and slender, yet well-muscled...  _They would have to be_ , he thought to himself.

Blue eyes, dark as the ocean...  _silly, unnecessary thought._  Tanned face, cheeks ruddy with cold, though from wrist to ankle her skin shone lily-white. Alistair chuckled, recalling the noblewomen he'd observed in Denerim who covered every bit of exposed skin with gloves and veils and wide-brimmed hats. Not so for Lyra Cousland -  _her mother likely had fits over it_ , he grinned to himself. A wide nose, but not overwhelmingly so... just enough to give her face a sort of character. Red lips, curving into a natural upward crescent, and she seemed to have a small overbite, her top lip a bit more full than the bottom one. A tiny mole - more like a lone freckle - on her chin, halfway between her neck and mouth, on the left side. A tiny scar on her jawline. All in all, a pleasing face, and certainly one that would have caught the eye of many a young man, with or without her rank.

Shaking his head, he picked up the stick and prodded the fire a bit more. Whatever he might think of her, she was out of his league, and pursuing her would be nothing more than a waste of time. For both of them.

_She deserves a prince_ , he thought.  _A real one._

.oOo.

Shortly after she'd dressed and having stolen another few bites of stew from the pot, Lyra went back outside to find Alistair speaking with Morrigan's mother. The old woman was... disorienting, to say the least. She seemed harmless, though - a small woman with straggly grey hair, dressed in a worn frock of sun-faded beige. Barefoot, too; her toes coated in filth, fingers stained with herbs and spotted with time. But her  _eyes_... her eyes glowed, shimmering with unspent power. It was... unnerving. Her aged voice snaked around them, slithery as a hissing serpent, and Lyra couldn't help quivering as she listened. By turns mocking, curious, and threatening, Morrigan's mother was a force Lyra had no desire to take on.

"You need not be afraid, young woman. I mean you no harm... if I did, I would have just left you at the top of that tower. Come closer, dear," the old woman beckoned.

Forcing down her trepidation, Lyra stepped forward, dragging her unwilling feet as close as she dared. Morrigan's mother laughed, a thin, reedy sound.

Behind her, Morrigan rolled her eyes as she crossed her arms. "Mother, these are not your playthings, and they need to be on their way."

"Yes, actually, we do need to go," Alistair agreed. "So we'll just gather our things, and-"

"Not so fast, young man. There's the little matter of my payment, for your rescue, healing, and board. We have yet to discuss terms."

Alistair and Lyra exchanged a glance. "Terms? Of payment?" Alistair's voice skipped up an octave, and then he slanted toward Lyra. "Have you got any money?"

The old woman cackled. "What would I do with gold, young man? Surely, both of you are not such fools, or I fear for the future of Ferelden." Her piercing eyes speared Lyra once more, and Lyra would have sworn that they glimmered golden. "Your future stretches out before you... I am eager to see what you do with it," she murmured cryptically. "But for now, my terms are thus. You will take Morrigan with you."

"I- what?" Morrigan sputtered. It was sort of funny to see her thus - the smooth talking witch didn't seem like one who flustered easily.

"You've been wanting to get out of the wilds for years. Now's your chance. Besides which, they need you, Morrigan. Theirs is an impossible task, and without you, they will surely fail."

Lyra wondered at this. Did they truly seem so incompetent... or was their work truly so encompassing?

Alistair spoke up. "Not that I want to seem ungrateful... but I don't know if it's a good idea for us to have an apostate along with us. We'll be traveling through a lot of towns, and the Templars could easily discover her."

"Not if you don't turn her in." Morrigan's mother seemed entertained as she turned to the young Warden. "She knows how to blend in... I have taught her well."

Pursing his lips, Alistair shot a glance at the scantily clad witch. One perfect black eyebrow arched as she met his gaze, challenging him to speak. Neither seemed to like what they saw. The young beauty had draped her torso in wine-colored fabric which left little to the imagination - her neckline dipped to the waist, displaying a flat stomach and flawless white skin. Kohl smudged her tawny eyes, as if their unnatural color wasn't enough to brand them into your memory. Black feathers shimmering with blues and greens adorned one shoulder, but Lyra couldn't identify the bird they might have come from. Slender arms led to slender wrists, wound with cuffs of black leather and jade and amber beads. Two ornate silver rings adorned her right hand; one bearing a large jade stone, and one made of silver wire and amber beads. Her perfect breasts offered teasing glimpses from beneath the thin material of her blouse, a series of leather thongs the only stays keeping the fabric on her body. A black leather skirt made of strips of various kinds of hides, stitched together and covered with buckles, and sturdy black boots completed her ensemble. Strapped to her back was a gnarled gray wooden staff, for fighting or magic, Lyra could not say... but she rather suspected it was the latter.

"Can you cook?" Alistair broke their silent stare-off tactlessly. Lyra nearly kicked him.

"I... can cook, yes." Morrigan's heated eyes turned to frost. "I also have extensive knowledge of poultices and... poisons."

"That's alright, you don't have to cook," Lyra put in hastily.

Alistair groaned. "You missed your chance. Now it'll be nothing but charred rabbit, from here on out," he muttered.

"I'll handle the food," she whispered.

"Morrigan, gather your things," the hag commanded. Huffing, the young witch turned and stalked into the hut, slamming the rickety door behind her. A somewhat strained moment followed, and Alistair began kicking at the small tufts of grass beneath his feet. Morrigan's mother slitted her eyes at him, and Lyra grasped for something to say.

"I don't think I thanked you for healing me... in fact, I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name...?" Lyra asked gingerly.

That frightening gaze pinned her once more. "Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind people call me Flemeth... it will do."

_That_  got Alistair's attention. "Flemeth?  _The_  Flemeth? But-"

"But I'm supposed to be hundreds of years old, and command a coven of witches who sacrifice virgins beneath a waning moon?" Enjoyment flickered over Flemeth's face. "Or perhaps you've heard the other legends? No matter, young man. I am as I appear... how you  _see_  me is something else entirely." The witch's eyes gleamed, and Lyra was reminded of a spider descending upon a hapless fly who'd had the misfortune of buzzing into her web.

The sound of the hut door drew everyone's attention, and Morrigan appeared from the hut, a small pack on her shoulders. "Farewell, Mother... do not neglect the fire. I would hate to return and find nothing but a charred ruin." Disdain dripped from her words. Hearing a young woman bid farewell to her mother in such a manner felt  _wrong_ , and sent an apprehensive chill over Lyra's skin.

The old woman pursed her lips. "More likely you will find that everything, including me, has been swallowed up by the Blight. Even I am not proof against the Archdemon." Flemeth's voice was hard, and Morrigan's eyes widened.

"I... I only meant..." she stammered.

"I know what you meant, girl. Be on your way. Farewell, Grey Wardens... may you succeed in the task set before you, lest all of Ferelden perish." With that reassuring reminder, Flemeth ducked back into the hut, and Lyra let out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. She turned to Morrigan, who seemed to have put away her unease and returned to her cold mask of uncaring.

"So..." Lyra began with what she hoped was a bright smile. "Which way out of the wilds?"


End file.
